"THE  BIG,   BRIGHT  STAR  WE' ALWAYS   LOOK  FOR  is 

SHINING    ABOVE    THE    CROSS " 


May  Iverson-Her  Book 


By 

Elizabeth  Jordan 

Author  of  "  Tales  of  Destiny  " 
"  Tales  of  the  Cloister  "  etc. 


Illustrated 


New  York  and  London 

Harper  &-  Brothers  Publishers 
1904 


107084 


Copyright,  1904,  by  HARPER  &  BROTHERS. 

All  rights  reserved. 
Published  October,  1904. 


TS 


c^rk>, 


To 
H.  B.  P.  and  M.  H.  C. 


V  Contents 

Vxj 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  THE  ORDEAL  OF  MAUDE  JOYCE    ...  3 

II.  THE  REDEMPTION  OF  MABEL  MURIEL     .  30 

III.  KITTIE'S  SISTER  JOSEPHINE 60 

"^            IV.  LOVE,  THE  DESTROYER 88 

^. 

,\          V.  SISTER  ESTELLE  TO  THE  RESCUE.     .     .  119 

VI.  ADELINE  THURSTON,  POETESS  ....  149 

VII.  FIRST  AID  TO  KITTIE  JAMES    ....  176 

^             VIII.  THE  VOICE  OF  TRUTH 211 

3 

IX.  THE  PLAY'S  THE  THING 237 

X.  WHAT  DREAMS  MAY  COME  .  260 


Illustrations 

"THE  BIG,  BRIGHT  STAR  WE  ALWAYS  LOOK 

FOR  IS  SHINING  ABOVE  THE  CROSS "    .    Frontispiece 
"WE   LEFT  TWO   DAYS   BEFORE   CHRISTMAS "  Facing  p.  14 

"KITTIE    SAYS  JOSEPHINE    is    NOT  A  BIT 

POKY" "  62 

"KITTIE  WAS  SKATING  STRAIGHT  TOWARDS 

IT" "  78 

"ADELINE  SPENT  HOURS  AND  HOURS  BY 

HERSELF" 154 

"WE  FED  KITTIE  JAMES  WITH  KNOWLEDGE*'  IQO 

"l  WAS  JULIET  AND  MAUDIE  ROMEO "  .  .  240 

"SISTER  EDNA  ASKED  MAUDIE  IF  SHE 

WASN'T  UP  LATE" 256 


May  Iverson — Her  Book 


The    Ordeal    of   Maude   Joyce 


jT  happened,  very  strangely, 
that  none  of  us  saw  Maude 
Joyce  the  first  morning  she 
came  into  the  class-room, 
until  she  had  been  there  al 
most  an  hour.  I  don't  know  why  we  didn't. 
Now,  looking  down  what  Mabel  Blossom 
calls  the  long,  dim  vista  of  the  one  year 
that  has  passed  since  then,  I  remember 
distinctly  that  it  was  always  very  easy  to 
divert  our  innocent  young  minds  from  our 
studies,  and  I  remember,  too,  that  when 
we  did  take  notice,  we  saw  about  every 
thing  in  our  line  of  vision.  Why,  one 
morning  Sister  Irmingarde  brought  a  world 
ly  friend  of  hers  into  the  class-room  while 
3 


May   Iverson— Her  Book 

we  were  having  a  written  examination  on 
history,  and  yet  we  girls  made  such  intel 
ligent  and  close  observation  of  what  that 
woman  wore  that  when  we  wrote  lists  of 
it  at  recess,  "just  for  fun  and  memory- 
training,"  as  Mabel  Blossom  said,  most  of 
us  hadn't  missed  a  single  thing  except  that 
the  vamp  of  her  shoes  was  straight  across 
instead  of  curved.  Mabel  Blossom  got 
that  in.  Mabel  is  my  chum.  Of  course, 
I  don't  mean  that  we  described  everything 
she  had  on;  it  was  only  what  we  could  see. 
But  you  understand;  and,  besides,  Sister 
Irmingarde  says  that  in  writing  literature 
one  must  always  leave  something  to  the 
imagination  of  the  reader.  So  I  will. 

But  to  return  to  Miss  Joyce.  She  was 
only  about  fourteen,  like  the  rest  of  us ;  but 
you  know  how  formal  one  is  in  a  convent 
school,  even  at  that  tender  age.  Sister 
Irmingarde  introduced  her  to  us  later  as 
Miss  Joyce,  and  Miss  Joyce  she  remained 
to  most  of  the  girls  for  a  long  time.  Mabel 
4 


The   Ordeal   of   Maude  Joyce 

Blossom  says  I'm  considered  one  of  the 
friendliest  girls  in  school,  but  it  was  fully 
two  weeks  before  even  I  called  Maude  Joyce 
by  her  first  name,  and  I  think  it  must  have 
been  a  whole  month  before  I  got  round  to 
Maudie.  She  was  a  very  proud,  haughty 
girl,  and  kept  us  at  a  distance.  She  told 
me  afterwards  that  this  was  because  she 
was  watching  us  and  making  up  her  mind 
which  of  us  she  cared  to  have  come  into 
the  individual  circle  of  her  life.  She  used 
beautiful  language  sometimes.  She  said 
girls  often  made  mistakes  when  they  went 
to  a  new  school,  and  took  up  with  the  first 
student  that  came  along,  instead  of  waiting 
to  know  them  and  make  a  wiser  choice; 
and  she  said  that  intimacies  once  formed 
were  often  hard  to  break.  You  see  how 
clever  she  was  to  think  of  all  these  things. 
I  never  do.  I  either  like  a  girl  or  dislike 
her  right  off,  and  when  I  do  like  her  I  just 
put  myself  out  to  show  it.  Of  course,  I'm 
particular  about  some  things — the  way 


May   Iverson — Her   Book 

they  do  their  hair  and  brush  their  teeth, 
and  vital  matters  like  that.  I  don't  like 
messy  girls.  But  when  they  have  stood 
those  tests  I  show  them  in  many  subtle 
ways  that  I  admire  them.  I  send  them 
flowers  and  notes,  and  spend  all  my  time 
with  them,  and  tell  them  my  secrets.  Mabel 
Blossom,  who  is  reading  this  book  as  fast 
as  I  write  it,  says  I  might  add  here  that  I 
tell  them  my  friends'  secrets,  too,  but  I 
don't.  I  can  keep  a  secret  as  well  as  any 
girl  I  know.  The  reason  I'm  telling  Maude 
Joyce's  secret  is  because  she  said  I  might. 
She  says  that  when  two  human  beings  have 
gone  together  through  a  great,  uplifting, 
illuminating  experience  like  ours,  it  should 
be  given  to  the  world. 

We  will  now  return  to  the  subject  under 
discussion,  as  Sister  Irmingarde  always 
says  when  we  don't  know  the  lesson  and 
try  to  lead  her  delicately  into  other  fields 
of  thought.  I  liked  Miss  Joyce  right  away ; 
so  at  noon,  after  we  had  been  properly  pre- 
6 


The   Ordeal   of   Maude  Joyce 

sented,  I  offered  to  show  her  round,  and 
tell  her  anything  she  wanted  to  know. 
Mabel  Blossom  says  I  have  a  taking  man 
ner,  so  I  tried  to  have  it  with  me  when  I 
approached  Miss  Joyce,  and  she  seemed  to 
like  me,  and  talked  pleasantly  enough,  and 
warmed  up  quite  a  little. 

She  was  a  tall  girl,  and  had  a  great  deal 
of  dignity.  She  told  me  afterwards  that  an 
artist  once  said  to  her  mother  that  Maude 
would  have  a  queenly  carriage  when  she  be 
came  a  woman,  so  I  guess  Maude  thought 
she  might  as  well  have  it  now,  without  wait 
ing.  She  held  her  shoulders  very  straight 
and  her  head  up,  and  she  was  the  joy  of 
Miss  Simpson,  who  drilled  us  in  physical 
culture  and  tried  hard  to  teach  us  how  to 
walk.  But  you  know  how  it  is  with  girls 
only  fourteen.  There  is  always  so  much 
to  do,  and  they  are  so  busy  and  anxious  to 
get  from  one  place  to  another  in  a  hurry, 
that  they  just  can't  remember  the  things 
about  keeping  your  elbows  in  and  your 
7 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

chin  on  a  level  with  your  knees,  or  what 
ever  it  is.  Later  on,  when  life  becomes  less 
complex,  as  Maude  says,  we'll  have  more 
time  to  think  of  these  things  and  do  them. 
Now  I  just  don't,  though  Miss  Simpson  is 
always  stopping  me  on  the  campus  and 
telling  me  about  them,  and  reminding  me 
of  how  well  Miss  Joyce  walks.  It's  a  won 
der  our  friendship  stands  the  strain.  It 
wouldn't  except  for  a  few  things  that 
I'm  going  to  tell  you  about,  if  I  ever  get 
around  to  them.  Isn't  it  funny  how 
much  you  have  to  say  in  literature  be 
fore  you  get  to  your  plot?  I've  just  be 
gun  my  literary  career,  for  I  might  as  well 
practise  on  it  a  little  before  I  leave  school, 
and  that  is  one  of  the  things  which  has 
struck  me.  Sister  Irmingarde  says  to  go 
ahead  and  tell  the  story,  and  never  mind 
the  rest.  That  isn't  just  the  way  she  put 
it,  of  course,  but  that  was  what  she  meant. 
I  don't  agree  with  her.  I  always  want  to 
know  just  how  the  thing  began  and  all  that 
8 


The  Ordeal   of  Maude  Joyce 

led  up  to  it.  And  it  seems  to  me  very  im 
portant  indeed  that  Maude  Joyce  sat  in  the 
back  of  our  class-room  an  hour  before  any 
of  us  saw  her,  and  a  whole  morning  before 
we  could  speak  to  her,  and  watched  us  and 
studied  us  all,  and  with  unerring  instinct 
selected  me  as  the  nicest  girl  there.  She 
didn't  tell  me  that  for  a  month,  but  you 
may  believe  I  was  pleased  when  she  did.  It 
was  right  after  that  I  began  to  call  her 
Maudie.  Then  she  said  another  thing. 
She  said :  "  I'm  so  glad  you  have  good  blood 
in  you,  and  that  your  father  is  a  general 
and  your  family  is  an  old  one.  Such 
things  mean  much  to  me."  And  she  told 
me  that  her  father  was  Bishop  Joyce,  and 
that  her  brother  was  in  the  regular  army, 
and  that  her  blood  was  the  best  in  Virginia. 
She  had  a  way  of  half  closing  her  eyes  and 
looking  at  one  through  the  slit,  and  she 
did  it  now,  and  said : 

"  I  couldn't  love  any  one  who  wasn't 
thoroughbred." 

9 


May   Iverson — Her   Book 

I  didn't  like  it  very  much;  it  gave  me  a 
queer  kind  of  a  feeling.  I  knew  I  was  all 
right  —  mercy,  mamma  and  my  married 
sister,  Mrs.  George  Verbeck,  lead  the  society 
in  our  Western  city;  but,  somehow,  I 
thought  of  the  other  girls,  and  especially  of 
Mabel  Blossom,  who  hasn't  any  family  at 
all,  and  giggles  over  it,  and  a  strange  weight 
settled  on  my  heart.  For,  after  all,  though 
I  may  write  notes  and  send  flowers  to  others, 
only  one  really  sits  enshrined,  as  it  were.  It 
is  Mabel  Blossom  I  love  with  all  the  strength 
of  an  ardent  nature.  So  I  saw  at  once  that 
if  Maude  wasn't  nice  to  Mabel  the  little 
tendrils  of  my  affection  for  her — Maudie, 
I  mean — which  were  sending  roots  deep  into 
my  being,  would  have  to  be  pulled  up. 

However,  it  came  out  right  enough. 
Maude  was  very  nice  to  Mabel,  and  in  fact 
to  all  the  girls.  She  said  she  didn't  mind 
about  acquaintances  or  ordinary  friends; 
it  was  her  intimates  who  must  be  well- 
bred — those  she  chose  from  all  the  world — 


The   Ordeal   of   Maude  Joyce 

those  who  came  into  the  circle  of  her  life 
which  she  was  always  talking  about. 

The  girls  said,  and  I  began  to  be  afraid 
myself,  that  Maude  Joyce  was  a  snob.  She 
talked  that  way,  and  it  really  looked  so.  As 
time  went  on  it  worried  me  a  great  deal,  for 
in  other  things  she  was  fine,  and  each  day 
revealed  hitherto  unsuspected  beauties  of 
character  and  temperament,  as  real  writers 
say.  She  was  the  most  generous  girl  I  ever 
knew,  and  the  soul  of  truth  and  honor.  If 
Maude  Joyce  said  anything  was  so  I  learned 
to  take  it  as  if  it  came  from  the  Bible,  and 
all  the  girls,  even  those  who  didn't  like  her, 
did  the  same.  Then  she  had  one  of  those 
grandly  intense  natures,  and  wasn't  afraid 
to  show  her  feelings.  She  was  lovely  about 
that.  If  she  cared  for  you,  she  said  so,  and 
wasn't  ashamed  of  it.  Besides,  she  was  so 
clever!  She  was  the  star  pupil,  and  took 
all  the  prizes  at  commencement,  and  that 
sort  of  thing,  but  I  didn't  mind.  I  was 
proud  of  her;  you  can  realize  from  this  the 
ii 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

depth  of  my  love.  Even  the  nuns  warmed 
up  to  her  a  little,  and  Sister  Irmingarde 
sometimes  let  her  walk  with  her  across  the 
campus  from  the  academy  to  the  cloister, 
which,  of  course,  was  a  great  honor.  She 
used  to  talk  to  her,  too,  but  Maudie  con 
fessed  to  me  at  commencement  that  Sis 
ter  Irmingarde  often  laughed  at  things  she 
said,  and  seemed  tremendously  amused  by 
her  point  of  view. 

Maude  said  she  took  up  books  because  she 
had  to,  but  that  life  was  her  real  study. 
She  said  she  meant  to  know  it,  and  "to 
squeeze  the  orange  of  existence,"  and  "to 
run  the  whole  gamut  of  human  experiences." 
She  used  those  identical  expressions,  and 
then  she  confessed  that  she  had  read  them 
in  a  book.  She  said  she  wanted  to  suffer 
and  be  strong,  and  have  her  soul  stirred  up. 
It  was  thrilling  to  hear  her  talk.  She  used 
to  creep  into  my  room  at  night  and  sit  on 
the  edge  of  the  bed  and  say  things  like  that, 
and  I  would  listen  with  cold  chills  running 

12 


The   Ordeal   of   Maude   Joyce 

up  and  down  my  back.  But  whatever  she 
talked  about,  there  was  always  blood  or 
race  mixed  up  in  it.  She  kept  harping  on 
those. 

Well,  it  came  towards  the  Christmas  holi 
days.  You  see  we  had  had  commencement 
and  summer  vacation  and  the  reopening, 
and  I've  left  them  all  out,  because  they  are 
not  a  part  of  this  book.  I  am  profiting  by 
Sister  Irmingarde's  teaching.  But  this  very 
moment  I've  remembered  something  I 
should  have  put  in  long  ago,  and  that  is 
Maudie  Joyce's  uncle  and  aunt.  We  had 
never  met  them,  and  neither  had  she,  for  she 
had  lived  south  and  they  were  up  north, 
and  her  first  chance  to  visit  them  came 
during  her  Christmas  holidays  at  the  con 
vent.  They  asked  her  to  come  there,  and 
she  decided  to  go,  and  it  was  rather  noble 
in  her,  for  they  were  an  old  couple,  and 
Christmas  on  her  own  plantation  would  have 
been  lots  more  fun.  Still,  she  expected  a 
good  time.  The  aunt  and  uncle,  she  sup- 
13 


May   Iverson — Her   Book 

posed,  had  a  beautiful  home  and  entertained 
a  great  deal,  though  they  lived  near  a  very 
small  town.  They  had  no  children,  but 
the  aunt  spoke  in  her  letters  of  the  sons 
and  daughters  of  their  neighbors,  and  how 
pleasant  they  were,  and  how  they  would 
enjoy  meeting  Maude.  She  wrote  prim 
little  letters,  in  an  old-fashioned  hand,  but 
there  was  something  about  them  I  liked, 
and  Maudie  said  she  did,  too. 

One  day  Maude  came  to  me  looking  ter 
ribly  excited  for  her — she  was  always  so 
calm — and  said  her  aunt  and  uncle  had  in 
vited  me  to  come  with  her  at  Christmas. 
She  had  written  about  me,  and  they  thought 
it  would  be  nice  for  her  to  have  me.  Well, 
I  thought  it  over,  and  I  liked  the  plan. 
There  were  reasons  why  I  was  not  anxious 
to  go  home  that  Christmas,  and  they  are  not 
a  part  of  this  chapter,  either,  so  I  won't  put 
them  in.  I  wrote  mamma,  and  said  I'd 
like  to  go,  and  she  replied  that  I  might ;  so 
I  told  Maude  I  would.  She  was  tickled  to 
14 


WE    LEFT    TWO    DAYS    BEFORE    CHRISTMAS" 


The   Ordeal   of   Maude  Joyce 

death.  She  even  forgot  to  be  queenly  the 
rest  of  that  evening,  and  we  stayed  awake 
most  of  the  night  planning  and  talking  and 
giggling  in  our  innocent  glee.  I  remember 
that,  especially,  because  it  was  so  long  be 
fore  we  giggled  just  that  way  again.  For 
already  Maude's  doom  was  upon  her,  and 
she  was  to  experience  and  suffer  and  have 
her  soul  crushed,  just  as  she  had  long  de 
sired.  But  I  am  sure  she  would  not  have 
chosen  the  time  or  the  way  it  was  done  if 
she  had  been  asked.  Thus  it  is  with  life. 
Thus  it  is  with  humans  in  the  relentless 
grasp  of  destiny.  Little  do  we  wot  what's 
coming.  Maudie  told  me  to  put  that  in 
here.  She  knows  I  am  writing  this  book, 
which  is  to  be  a  faithful  chronicle  of  our 
life  at  St.  Catharine's  Academy. 

Well,  the  day  of  destiny  dawned.  That 
is  alliteration,  and  I  did  it  myself.  Maudie 
and  I  left  school  two  days  before  Christ 
mas,  and  a  darling  little  unworldly  nun 
bought  our  tickets  and  attended  to  our 
15 


May   Iverson — Her   Book 

baggage,  because  we  weren't  supposed  to 
have  sense  enough  to  do  it  ourselves.  She 
was  the  most  exquisite,  spiritual  thing  in 
the  convent,  so  we  never  got  over  a  strange, 
peaceful  joy  we  felt  in  watching  her  wrestle 
with  brass  baggage-checks. 

We  had  a  good  time  during  the  journey. 
We  both  had  plenty  of  pocket  money,  so 
we  bought  all  the  magazines,  ^and  fed  the 
babies  in  the  train  with  fruit  and  candy 
till  their  mothers  stopped  us,  and  we  talked 
about  life,  and  Maudie  revealed  more  strange 
innermost  recesses  in  her  nature.  She  was 
the  queerest  girl ! 

Then,  suddenly,  the  conductor  or  some 
body  called  out,  "  Barnville  Junction!"  and 
we  remembered  that  it  was  our  station,  and 
grabbed  all  our  things,  and  everybody 
helped  us,  and  there  was  a  good  deal  of 
excitement,  and  we  got  off  the  train.  It 
went  right  on,  of  course,  the  way  they  do, 
and  we  were  left  alone.  There  was  no  one 
in  sight,  and  all  we  could  see  were  meadows 
16 


The  Ordeal   of  Maude  Joyce 

and  trees  and  hills  covered  with  snow.  A 
young  man  who  looked  like  a  farmer  came 
out  of  the  little  station-house,  and  locked 
the  door  and  walked  off  without  even  glanc 
ing  at  us,  and  we  were  so  surprised  we  didn't 
think  to  speak  to  him.  But  just  then  we 
saw  a  low,  flat  sleigh  come  bumping  along 
a  rough  country  road  near  the  station,  and 
when  it  got  nearer  we  saw  an  old  man  and 
woman  sitting  in  the  front  seat.  There 
was  an  empty  seat  behind  them.  They 
drove  up  to  us  and  stopped,  and  looked 
at  us,  and  we  just  stared  back  hard  at 
them. 

They  were  the  queerest-looking  little  old 
man  and  woman  I  had  ever  seen.  They 
were  small  and  all  dried  up  and  wrinkled 
and  brown,  as  if  they  had  been  out  in  the 
sun,  and  they  wore  the  oddest,  most  coun 
try-looking  clothes.  The  woman  had  a 
hood  on  and  the  man  wore  an  old  fur  cap 
that  drooped  over  one  ear.  They  both  look 
ed  at  us  very  kindly,  but  a  little  shyly,  and 
?7 


May   Iverson  — Her   Book 

there  was  something  about  their  faces  I 
liked.  The  woman  spoke  first. 

"Are  you  my  niece?"  she  said,  looking 
at  Maudie.  "You  look  jest  like  your  pict 
ure  you  sent  us."  Then,  at  something  in 
Maude's  face,  for  she  told  me  afterwards 
she  simply  couldn't  speak,  the  little  old 
woman  climbed  down  from  the  sleigh  and 
shook  hands  primly  and  kissed  us  both. 
She  talked  as  she  did  it,  and  I  talked,  too, 
as  fast  as  I  could  to  cover  Maude's  silence. 
Her  face — Maude's  face,  I  mean — looked 
simply  stricken.  They  were  so  different, 
you  see,  from  what  she  had  expected.  The 
old  man  shook  hands  with  us  both  without 
getting  out  of  the  sleigh — he  had  rheuma 
tism — and  we  climbed  into  the  back  seat, 
and  the  horse  jogged  along  the  frosty  coun 
try  road. 

Looking  back  now  on  that  experience,  I 

think  I  can  say  without  violence  to  the 

modesty    which    Sister    Irmingarde    says 

should  be  the  crown  of  a  young  girl's  nat- 

18 


The  Ordeal   of  Maude  Joyce 

ure,  that  I  saved  that  situation.  Maude 
was  literally  speechless  with  surprise  and 
horror.  She  had  expected  people  like  her 
father  and  mother  to  meet  her,  and  these 
were  —  well,  it  was  impossible  not  to  see 
that  the  priceless  advantages  of  education 
and  travel  had  never  been  theirs.  And 
the  man  was  Maude's  mother's  own  brother. 
He  said,  "Be  you  tired?"  and  "I  reckon 
you  air  considerable  done  up,"  and  things 
like  that.  The  aunt  was  not  so  bad.  We 
learned  later  that  she  had  been  the  village 
teacher  when  she  was  a  young  girl. 

I  just  said  to  myself,  "May  Iverson,  if 
ever  you  made  yourself  pleasant  and  agree 
able,  you  do  it  now  " ;  and  I  did.  I  laughed 
and  talked,  and  told  them  about  the  journey 
and  the  babies  and  the  other  folks  on  the 
train,  and  I  said  how  glad  Maudie  and  I 
were  to  come,  and  how  we  had  looked  for 
ward  to  it.  I  dragged  Maudie  into  the  con 
versation  whenever  I  could,  and  finally  she 
braced  up  a  little  and  talked  some,  too,  but 
19 


May  Iverson  — Her   Book 

you  would  never  have  known  her  voice. 
It  sounded  flat  and  queer.  I  knew  just 
how  she  felt,  with  her  haughty,  sensitive 
nature  thus  outraged ;  and,  of  course,  in  one 
way,  having  me  along  made  it  lots  worse, 
because  she  had  said  so  much  about  blood 
and  culture. 

The  uncle  and  aunt  didn't  suspect  a 
thing.  They  laughed  at  my  stories,  and  a 
little  pink  flush  came  in  the  aunt's  cheeks, 
and  she  really  looked  pretty,  I  thought.  It 
was  plain  to  see  she  adored  Maudie.  She 
kept  turning  round  to  look  at  her,  and  I 
noticed  that  when  Maudie  spoke  they  both 
listened  with  a  kind  of  strained  interest,  as 
if  they  were  afraid  they'd  lose  a  word.  And 
it  wasn't  because  she  gave  them  such  a  few. 
It  was  affectionate  interest.  Finally  we 
reached  the  house,  after  driving  about  five 
miles.  It  was  a  nice  old  farm-house,  paint 
ed  white,  with  a  big  porch  in  front,  and 
there  were  red  barns  in  the  distance,  and 
a  big  windmill.  I  liked  it,  and  Maudie 
20 


The  Ordeal   of   Maude  Joyce 

cheered  up  somewhat.  But  when  we  got 
inside  there  were  rag  carpets  and  worsted 
mats  and  hair -bottomed  chairs,  and  an 
album  on  the  centre  table  in  the  "parlor," 
and  tidies  and  awful  pictures  and  all  the 
dreadful  stuff  people  get  who  don't  know 
things. 

"Aunt  Caroline,"  as  Maudie  called  her, 
took  us  right  up  to  our  room.  It  was  a  big 
corner  room  with  lots  of  windows,  and  a 
rag  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  an  open  fire, 
and  an  enormous  bed  with  six  pillows  and 
two  feather-beds  on  it.  We  found  that  out 
afterwards,  about  the  beds,  but  I  suspected 
the  terrible  truth  from  the  first.  Maude's 
aunt  went  straight  to  the  closet  and  took 
out  something,  and  brought  it  over  to  us  as 
we  stood  kind  of  huddled  together  before 
the  fire.  She  held  it  out  before  Maude. 
It  was  a  "ready-made"  silk  dress,  and  if  I 
was  a  real  writer,  and  not  just  beginning, 
I'd  try  to  tell  you  how  that  dress  looked. 
But  I  can't.  It  would  take  words  I  never 

3  21 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

heard  of  to  do  it.  As  the  reporters  say 
about  fires,  "it  beggared  description."  I 
can  just  say  it  was  simply  the  most  awful 
thing  I  ever  looked  at  in  color  and  style, 
and  you  will  have  to  imagine  it  yourself. 
Afterwards  I  used  to  wake  at  night  and 
think  of  it  and  shudder.  Maude's  aunt 
held  it  up,  as  I  said,  and  there  were  tears 
of  joy  in  her  eyes. 

"  It's  for  you,  dear,"  she  said,  in  her  thin 
little  cracked  voice  —  "jest  a  little  s'prise 
from  me  and  your  uncle.  We  went  to 
Barrytown  last  week  and  bought  it  for  ye." 

Then,  in  that  terrible  moment,  Maude 
Joyce  showed  the  kind  of  girl  she  was ;  and 
as  I  looked  on  the  scene  my  heart  swelled 
till  my  breath  nearly  stopped  coming.  She 
went  right  up  to  her  Aunt  Caroline  and  she 
bent  over  and  kissed  her  on  each  cheek. 

"Thank  you,  auntie,"  she  said.  "That 
was  very  kind  and  generous  of  you  and 
uncle."  Then  her  aunt  cried  and  kissed 
her,  and  said  again  how  happy  she  and 

22 


The   Ordeal   of   Maude  Joyce 

Uncle  William  were  to  have  Maudie  and 
me  with  them,  and  finally  she  went  down 
stairs  and  left  us  to  change  our  dresses  after 
the  journey.  The  moment  the  door  closed 
behind  her  Maude  Joyce  rushed  to  the  bed 
and  hurled  herself  on  it,  and  buried  her 
head  in  it  and  sobbed  and  cried,  and  said 
the  same  thing  over  and  over. 

"I  just  can't  stand  it!"  she  said.  "I 
can't!  I  can't!  We'll  go  back  to-day. 
We'll  leave  this  awful  place  and  these 
dreadful  people.  Can  we  ever  forget  this 
nightmare,  May?" 

I  let  her  cry  for  a  while.  I  knew  she 
wasn't  a  girl  to  do  things  impulsively.  She 
would  think  it  all  over  with  a  wisdom  far 
beyond  her  years.  So  I  sat  by  the  window 
and  didn't  say  much,  and  pretty  soon  she 
stopped  crying  and  began  to  think,  even  as 
I  had  known  she  would  do.  Finally,  after 
a  long  time,  she  got  up  and  came  over  to 
me,  and  looked  me  straight  in  the  eyes  and 
asked  me  if  I  cared  for  her.  Of  course  I 
23 


May   Iverson — Her   Book 

said  I  did.  Then  she  said,  "  Will  you  stand 
by  me  through  this?"  and  I  said  I  would. 
I  began,  too,  to  say  something  about  her 
not  minding,  and  what  a  good  time  we 
would  have,  but  she  stopped  me  and  kissed 
me,  and  changed  her  dress  without  another 
word,  and  we  went  down-stairs. 

The  meal  was  pretty  bad.  It  was  served 
in  the  kitchen,  and  Maude's  uncle  and  aunt 
reached  over  the  table  for  things,  and  the 
old  man  ate  with  his  knife  and  drank  his 
tea  out  of  his  saucer  and  made  strange 
noises  over  it.  Then  in  the  evening  some 
of  the  young  farmers  came  in,  and  the  coun 
try  girls,  and  they  sat  around  the  room  and 
grinned  at  us  sheepishly.  The  men  had 
cow-hide  boots,  and  the  girls — oh,  well,  it 
really  was  all  pretty  dreadful,  even  if  one 
didn't  look  at  such  things  as  Maudie  Joyce 
did.  When  we  were  in  bed  that  night  she 
had  another  spell  of  crying. 

"  If  they  were  only  as  poor  as  Job's  tur 
key,"  she  said,  "and  lived  out  under  a  tree 
24 


The   Ordeal   of   Maude  Joyce 

and  ate  nuts,  I'd  gladly  visit  them  there  if 
they  were  only — civilized!  I  hate  money. 
We  haven't  much  ourselves,  and  none  of 
my  family  cares  for  it ;  but  this  awful  igno 
rance  and  vulgarity  I  can't  endure!"  And 
she  cried  and  cried  and  cried.  I  went  to 
sleep  at  last,  but  I  woke  often  during  the 
night,  and  whenever  I  did  I  heard  her  sob 
bing  and  turning  restlessly  from  side  to 
side.  I  suppose  it  all  seems  silly  to  others, 
but  to  me,  who  knew  that  proud  soul  so 
well,  it  was  tragic.  I  spoke  to  her  some 
times  and  patted  her  back  once  or  twice, 
but  on  the  whole  I  let  her  think  it  out  alone. 
I  got  a  good  deal  of  sleep  myself. 

When  morning  came  Maudie  sat  up  in 
bed  and  looked  at  me  and  asked  if  I  was 
awake.  I  said  I  was,  and  I  rubbed  my 
eyes  and  tried  to  be.  It  was  bitterly  cold, 
but  we  were  used  to  that  in  the  convent. 
Maude  leaned  her  elbows  on  her  knees  and 
buried  her  chin  in  her  hands  and  began  to 
talk. 

25 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

"May,"  she  said,  "you  behold  in  me  a 
new  person." 

Well,  she  looked  it.  Her  face  was  swollen 
and  her  nose  was  red,  but  somehow  there 
was  still  a  great  deal  of  dignity  in  her  mien. 
She  went  right  on  before  I  had  time  to  speak. 

"I've  had  a  lesson,"  she  said,  very  sol 
emnly,  "and  I  needed  it  for  my  soul's 
sake.  I  have  gone  through  fire.  These 
folks  are  my  people;  their  blood  is  in  me. 
I  am  not  what  I  thought  I  was.  I  am  one 
of  the  people.  I  shall  never  speak  of  blood 
or  race  again.  You  girls  thought  I  was  a 
snob.  I  was,  and  this  is  my  punishment. 
I  shall  take  it.  I  shall  stay  here  this  week, 
and  I  shall  carry  out  all  their  plans  and 
make  myself  as  agreeable  as  I  can  to  them 
and  to  their  friends.  It's  not  their  fault 
that  they  are  like  this,  and — I — I — can't 
hurt  their  feelings.  I  wouldn't  for  the 
world.  So  I'll  stay  and  see  this  thing 
through.  But  I  don't  expect  you  to  do  it ; 
you'd  better  go  home." 
26 


The   Ordeal   of   Maude  Joyce 

Well,  I  just  hugged  her,  and  in  that  very 
moment  I  knew  that  no  other  friend  in  life 
could  ever  be  to  me  what  Maudie  Joyce 
was.  I  told  her  what  I  thought  of  her,  and 
she  seemed  pleased,  and  I  know  she  was  glad 
when  I  said  I  wouldn't  leave  her  for  the 
whole  world.  And  I  said  I  liked  her  aunt 
and  uncle,  and  it  was  true.  Then  we 
dressed  and  went  down  to  breakfast,  and 
it  was  pretty  to  see  those  two  old  faces 
beam  when  we  went  into  the  kitchen.  We 
both  kissed  them  good-morning — Maudie 
began  it,  and  I  followed  the  noble  girl's 
beautiful  example. 

Well,  that's  all.  I  suppose  I  ought  to 
add  that  we  had  a  dreadful  time  for  a  week, 
and  that  Maudie  had  to  continue  her  heroic, 
spiritual  struggle.  But  we  didn't.  In 
stead  we  had  the  most  beautiful  time  of 
our  lives.  We  went  sleighing  and  maple- 
sugaring,  and  the  neighbors  gave  parties, 
and  we  got  to  like  them  a  lot,  and — well,  I 
never  had  such  a  good  time  before.  Maudie 
27 


May  Iverson  — Her    Book 

wore  the  new  silk  dress  once  or  twice  (that 
stayed  awful!),  just  because  it  pleased  her 
uncle  and  aunt,  and  when  we  left  them  at 
the  end  of  vacation  they  cried,  and  we  did, 
too.  You  see,  we  got  used  to  the  little 
things  they  did,  which  seemed  strange  to 
us,  and  we  discovered  the  beautiful  natures 
under  their  uncouth  exteriors,  as  Maudie 
said.  They  were  so  sweet  and  gentle  and 
simple  and  generous — well,  they  were  just 
fine.  When  we  left  they  said  they  loved 
me  next  to  Maudie,  and  that  showed  their 
souls  were  refined. 

Now,  whenever  we  girls  can  steal  away  for 
a  few  days  we  go  to  them.  Maudie  has 
taken  at  least  eight  or  ten  of  the  girls  there, 
for  the  old  folks  love  to  have  young  people 
around.  And  in  summer  it's  delightful — 
with  fishing  and  driving  and  wood-parties, 
and  the  beautiful  cows  standing  in  the  past 
ures.  Once  we  had  them  at  the  convent 
for  a  few  days — the  aunt  and  uncle,  I  mean 
— and  when  we  did  that  I  knew  the  last 
28 


The   Ordeal  of   Maude  Joyce 

drop  of  snobbishness  had  flowed  forever 
out  of  Maude  Joyce's  heart.  The  sisters 
were  lovely  to  them,  and  they  had  a  beauti 
ful  time.  Somehow,  it  brought  the  tears 
to  my  eyes  to  see  the  happiness  of  the  dear 
old  couple,  who  had  never  had  children  of 
their  own,  and  who  loved  the  young  so 
much.  I  call  them  aunt  and  uncle,  too, 
just  as  Maudie  does,  and  they  still  love 
me  next  to  her,  though  they've  met  so 
many  of  the  other  girls  since.  Thus  should 
the  heart  turn  always  to  those  who  are 
most  worthy,  regardless  of  worldly  consider 
ations.  Maudie  says  that's  the  moral  of  this 
chapter. 


II 

The   Redemption    of  Mabel    Muriel 

MAY  as  well  admit  in  the 
very  beginning  of  this  chap- 
jj>  ter  that  none  of  us  girls  liked 

Q7 

Mabel  Muriel  Murphy.  Per 
haps  it  was  her  name  that 
annoyed  us  first.  There  was  so  much  of  it, 
and  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy  made  us  use  the 
whole  of  it  every  time,  and  somehow  it  didn't 
seem  to  belong  together — the  different  parts 
of  it,  I  mean.  But  finally  Mabel  Blossom 
had  an  idea.  She  called  us  all  together  and 
told  us  she  had  found  a  use  for  Mabel 
Muriel's  name.  She  said  it  hurt  her  to  see 
so  much  of  anything  going  to  waste,  and 
that  she  had  been  awake  most  of  the  night 
before  thinking  it  over,  and  it  had  been 
3° 


The  Redemption  of  Mabel  Muriel 

borne  in  on  her  that  the  name  could  be 
made  to  fill  a  long-felt  want.  She  said 
some  of  us  had  brought  from  our  happy 
homes  exclamations  learned  from  our  broth 
ers  and  intended  for  use  in  moments  of  ex 
citement.  She  said  we  would  recall  how 
the  nuns  had  stripped  us  of  these,  so  to 
speak,  leaving  us  with  "nothing  but  prayer 
to  fill  the  aching  void"  (she  said  it  just  that 
way!),  and  then  she  suggested  that  we  use 
Mabel  Muriel's  name  instead.  The  sisters 
might  be  justified,  she  said,  in  objecting  to 
"  Great  Scott!"  and  "  Holy  Smoke!"  but  the 
strictest  could  not  criticise  us  for  using  the 
name  of  a  dear  companion  and  little  play 
mate  !  And  she  said  to  try  it  for  ourselves, 
repeating  it  slowly  and  solemnly — Mabel 
— Muriel — Murphy ! — emphasizing  the  first 
syllable  of  every  word,  and  see  if  it  wasn't 
grateful  and  comforting. 

Well,  we  did,  and  it  was;  and  before  the 
meeting  adjourned  we  made  a  yell  of  it,  too, 
that  died  away  in  a  long-drawn-out  pianis- 
31 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

simo  effect.  It  was  great.  After  that  you 
could  hear  girls  saying  it  all  over  the  place, 
and  Mabel  Muriel  herself  used  to  come  run 
ning  because  she  thought  she  was  called. 
It  made  her  mad  at  first — I  mean,  it  an 
noyed  her  very  much;  but  pretty  soon  she 
got  set  up  over  it  and  took  it  as  a  kind  of 
tribute,  and  wrote  home  about  it  with  girl 
ish  pride.  That  was  the  kind  she  was, 
you  see;  not  the  least  little  bit  sensi 
tive;  and  conceited — well,  I  shall  have  to 
wait  until  I  get  more  experience  as  a  writer 
before  I  can  describe  how  conceited  Mabel 
Muriel  Murphy  was. 

All  this  about  her  name  happened  a  week 
after  Mabel  Muriel  came  to  St.  Catharine's, 
but  if  we  had  to  wait  a  year  we  couldn't 
have  sized  her  up  better.  We  were  only 
fourteen,  and  she  was  fifteen  the  month 
before  she  entered,  but  it  didn't  take  us 
long  to  read  her  sadly  shallow  nature.  We 
girls  are  studying  life  and  human  nature, 
and,  if  I  do  say  it,  there  isn't  much  that  es- 
32 


The  Redemption  of  Mabel  Muriel 

capes  our  innocent  but  observant  young 
eyes.  Whenever  you  want  insight  and  in 
tuition  and  understanding  and  subtlety, 
and  a  lot  of  other  qualities  like  that,  you 
just  go  to  Mabel  Blossom  or  Maudie  Joyce. 
They'd  tell  you  to  come  to  me,  too,  but  of 
course  I  can't  say  that  about  myself,  and  if 
I  have  a  special  gift  for  seeing  into  things  I 
don't  deserve  any  credit  for  it.  It's  a  mis 
fortune.  It  goes  with  the  artistic  tempera 
ment,  and,  oh!  how  the  true  artist  soul  suf 
fers  in  its  loneliness!  It  is  this  that  has 
made  me  turn  to  the  study  of  humanity 
and  find  my  comfort  and  my  nepenthe  there. 
Nepenthe  means  forgetfulness.  If  Sister 
Irmingarde  was  here  now  she'd  tell  me  I 
am  straying  from  the  point,  and  I  suppose  I 
am.  It's  so  hard  to  remember  all  the  rules 
of  literature  and  keep  your  plot  in  your 
mind  at  the  same  time.  It's  worse  than 
bridge  whist.  Mabel  Blossom  says  my 
style  is  a  kind  of  literary  sprint  between 
the  rules  and  the  plot,  but  she  needn't  talk, 
33 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

I  notice  that  Sister  Irmingarde  sometimes 
reads  my  stories  to  the  class,  and  that  she 
has  not  yet  read  one  of  Mabel's!  Not  that 
I  wish  to  boast,  of  course,  for  true  merit  is 
always  humble,  and  I  have  often  told  Mabel 
that  the  only  reason  her  stories  are  so  bad 
is  that  she  lacks  construction,  imagination, 
and  literary  talent.  Also,  plot. 

It  was  Mabel  Muriel's  trunks  that  annoy 
ed  us  next.  There  were  seven  of  them, 
and  they  were  piled  up  in  a  heap  in  front  of 
the  infirmary,  where  she  had  a  room  be 
cause  her  mother  thought  she  was  delicate 
and  had  to  be  watched  nights.  That  dis 
gusted  us,  too,  for  Mabel  Muriel  was  a  fat, 
lazy  girl,  and  she  wanted  to  be  in  the  infirm 
ary  so  she  wouldn't  have  to  get  up  as  early 
in  the  morning  as  the  rest  of  us  did.  Well, 
anyway,  there  were  her  seven  trunks,  and  I 
wish  you  could  see  the  clothes  that  girl 
brought  to  the  quiet  temple  of  learning 
where  we  were  gathered.  Silk  dresses,  and 
beautiful  evening  gowns  with  low-neck 
34 


The  Redemption  of  Mabel  Muriel 

waists,  and  lace  dressing-gowns,  and  wrap 
pers,  and — well,  there  was  no  end  to  them. 
Every  morning  Mabel  Muriel  strolled  into 
class  in  a  different  one,  and  when  Sister 
Irmingarde  delicately  informed  her  that 
simpler  gowns  would  be  in  better  taste  on 
a  school-girl,  she  said  she  hadn't  any  others, 
which  was  all  too  true.  Then  we  discover 
ed  what  we  had  surmised  from  the  first,  that 
her  family  were  not  people  of  broad  culture, 
and  that  her  father  had  made  a  great  deal 
of  money  in  lard,  or  something,  and  was 
trying  to  spend  it  all  on  Mabel  Muriel,  who 
was  his  only  child.  Kitty  James  had  a 
friend  in  the  town  Mabel  Muriel  came  from, 
and  she  said  nothing  made  Mr.  Murphy  so 
happy  as  to  have  Mabel  Muriel  ask  for 
things.  Mabel  Muriel  was  thoughtful  about 
that,  too,  and  did  it,  and  used  to  telegraph 
when  letters  would  take  too  long.  Then 
he  would  send  them  right  off  by  express, 
and  stand  around  panting  with  eagerness 
to  do  something  else,  like  one  of  those  little 
35 


May   Iverson — Her   Book 

dogs  that  runs  and  gets  a  stick  for  you. 
Kittie's  friend  said  he  actually  wanted  to 
build  a  house  for  Muriel  on  the  campus,  so 
she  could  have  her  own  servants  and  ' '  feel 
at  home,"  but  I  can  imagine  the  gentle  firm 
ness  with  which  Mother  Mary  Caroline  sat 
on  that! 

Of  course  these  things  did  not  come  to  us 
all  at  once,  even  with  our  keen  intuition. 
They  came  slowly,  and,  my !  how  we  did  dis 
like  Mabel  Muriel !  She  snubbed  us  so,  and 
was  so  vulgar  about  her  money  and  her 
clothes,  and  so — well,  so  lacking  in  all  the 
delicate  sensibilities  we  have  been  taught 
are  characteristic  of  a  lady.  We  saw  she 
was  worrying  the  nuns  to  death.  You  see, 
they  had  taken  her  in  without  realizing 
what  she  was,  and,  of  course,  it  was  not  easy 
to  send  her  away.  For  she  never  did  any 
thing  very  bad,  of  course.  She  was  just  un 
derbred  and  disagreeable  the  whole  time, 
and  got  boxes  from  home,  and  ate  and  ate, 
and  got  fatter  every  minute,  and  called  the 
36 


The  Redemption  of  Mabel  Muriel 

minims  around  her  and  fed  them,  too,  and 
told  them  how  wonderful  she  was.  The 
minims,  you  know,  were  the  tiny  girls  in 
the  elementary  departments,  so  young  that 
they  did  not  know  any  better  than  to  re 
spond  to  the  advances  and  chocolate  creams 
of  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy.  So  they  stood 
round  her  like  a  flock  of  cute  little  chickens, 
and  they  ate  and  listened,  and,  of  course, 
their  poor  stomachs  got  upset  and  they 
landed  in  the  infirmary  and  had  bilious  at 
tacks.  But  these  incidents,  though  pain 
ful,  were  not  all.  There  was,  indeed,  more 
to  come,  and  it  came  like  the  Fate  in  those 
Greek  tragedies  Sister  Edna  is  beginning  to 
tell  us  about.  I  like  those  Greek  tragedies. 
They  are  so  like  life,  and  life  is  so  wonder 
ful,  so  terrible.  Oh,  life,  life —  But  Mabel 
Blossom  says  she  is  perfectly  sure  I  must  not 
bring  that  in  here,  so  I  won't.  I  let  Mabel 
read  these  chapters  as  fast  as  I  write  them. 
It  is  such  splendid  training  for  her.  Mabe] 
says  so,  too.  She  says  that  if  it  wasn't  for 
4  37 

1 0  7  0  8  4 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

my  book  she  might  keep  on  writing  herself. 
Those  were,  indeed,  her  words. 

Months  passed,  and  we  girls  were  pretty 
busy.  But  any  time  we  had  after  the  study 
of  life  and  our  school-work  was  given  to 
disliking  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy.  For  she 
got  worse  with  every  single  week.  She 
kept  away  from  us  as  much  as  she  could 
after  we  had  had  to  drop  her,  and  some  of 
the  younger  girls  told  us  she  said  things 
about  us,  and  she  got  duller -eyed  and 
pastier-looking  every  day.  Her  clothes  were 
quieter  (the  sisters  made  her  send  home  for 
simpler  things),  and  she  would  wipe  her 
pens  on  the  sleeves  and  the  skirts  to  show 
how  she  despised  them.  She  had  never 
been  neat,  but  her  hair  looked  more  mussy 
and  her  nails  were  dreadful.  It  was  about 
this  time  that  Sister  Irmingarde  asked  me 
to  take  Mabel  Muriel  in  hand,  and  I  may  as 
well  admit  right  now  that  I  flinched,  though 
my  father  is  a  general,  and  no  Iverson  ever 
yet  turned  his  back  to  the  foe.  If  she  had 
38 


The  Redemption  of  Mabel  Muriel 

asked  me  to  nurse  Mabel  Muriel  through  the 
small-pox  I  would  have  done  my  best ;  but 
to  be  her  friend,  to  chum  with  her — !  That 
dash  is  put  in  there  to  show  you  how  I  felt. 
Sister  Irmingarde  was  very  nice  about  it, 
of  course.  She  had  seen  everything,  and 
she  knew  what  was  passing  in  my  breast  as 
well  as  if  a  type-writer  was  rattling  it  all  off 
for  her.  She  said  Miss  Murphy  was  too 
much  alone,  and  that  a  little  time  and  at 
tention  from  me  might  cheer  her  and  help 
her  in  many  ways.  And  she  talked  about 
humanitarianism  and  our  duty  to  each  other 
till  I  said  I  would — that  I  would  do  it,  I 
mean.  However,  it  didn't  work.  I  did 
my  best,  but  it  was  all  too  plain  that  the 
calm  and  refining  influence  of  my  society 
was  not  what  Mabel  Muriel  wanted.  She 
was  civil,  in  a  heavy  sort  of  way,  but  it  was 
a  relief  to  us  both  when  the  experiment  was 
over.  I  have  seen  the  girls  try  to  dissolve 
sugar  in  lemon  juice,  and  they  don't  mix 
very  well.  It  was  even  so  with  Mabel 
39 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

Muriel  and  me.  Still,  it  gave  her  a  claim  on 
rne,  and  once  in  a  long  time  she  would  come 
to  my  room,  smelling  of  horribly  strong  per 
fume  and  bringing  a  big  box  of  the  candy 
she  was  always  eating.  If  there  were  other 
girls,  she  never  stayed,  and  there  most  al 
ways  were,  of  course,  so  her  visits  were 
short  and  rare.  But  one  night  Maudie 
Joyce  and  Mabel  Blossom  and  I  were  look 
ing  at  some  photographs,  and  Mabel  Muriel 
came,  and  I  made  her  look,  too,  and  she 
stayed,  and  we  all  talked  quite  a  while.  She 
was  quieter  than  usual  that  night  and  didn't 
say  so  much  about  her  "paw's"  money. 
And  she  seemed  to  be  watching  us  and  tak 
ing  us  in  in  a  queer  way.  Finally  she  got 
up  to  go,  and  it  was  quite  late,  and  she 
stayed  by  the  door  a  little  while  talking; 
and  with  that  strange  insight  I  have  I  knew 
she  had  enjoyed  herself  and  was  sorry  to 
go ;  but  she  went,  and  didn't  come  again  for 
more  than  a  week. 

I  am  now  approaching  with  the  artist's 
40 


The  Redemption  of  Mabel  Muriel 

reverence  the  dramatic  scene  of  this  chapter. 
There  always  is  one,  if  you  will  notice,  and 
Mabel  Blossom  says  there  are  times  when 
she  can't  wait  for  them.  One  night  about 
ten  o'clock  I  was  tossing  restlessly  in  my  bed, 
when  I  heard  a  very  soft  rap  on  my  door. 
I  am  a  nervous  and  highly  imaginative  girl, 
and  my  brain  is  so  active  that  sometimes  I 
can't  sleep.  That  night  I  had  eaten  one  of 
Maudie  Joyce's  Welsh  rabbits  and  some 
pickles  and  a  piece  of  pie  and  some  fudge. 
So  it  couldn't  have  been  hunger.  It  may 
have  been  the  fudge.  Well,  some  unknown 
thing  made  me  wakeful  when  the  rap 
came.  I  was  scared,  for  we  are  not  allowed 
tp  visit  each  other  at  night,  and  if  we  were 
caught  doing  it  there  would  be  a  lot  of 
trouble.  I  got  up  and  tiptoed  to  the  door 
and  opened  it,  and  there,  of  all  persons  in 
the  world,  stood  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy!  I 
just  gasped,  but  she  walked  right  in  as  cool 
as  you  please  and  sat  down  on  the  edge  of 
my  bed.  She  wore  one  of  her  white  lace 
41 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

dressing-gowns,  and  it  was  dreadfully  soiled, 
and  her  hair  was  just  the  way  she  wore  it 
in  the  daytime.  She  had  not  arranged  it 
neatly  for  the  night,  as  we  are  taught  to  do. 
I  closed  the  door  and  stared  at  her,  and  then 
I  said:  "Good  gracious!  why  did  you  come 
here  at  this  hour?  Sister  Edna  may  hear 
you." 

It  wasn't  very  hospitable,  of  course,  but 
Sister  Edna  looked  after  that  hall,  and  I 
knew  she  might  meander  along  at  any  min 
ute  and  hear  whispering  and  come  in.  Mabel 
Muriel  propped  herself  against  the  foot  of 
the  bed  and  stared  at  me  in  the  calmest 
way,  and  said: 

"I  wish  she  would  come  in.  That's  ex 
actly  what  I  want."  And  then  she  added, 
very  solemnly,  "  May  Iverson,  I've  made  up 
my  mind  to  be  a  lady!" 

I  can  tell  you  I  was  angry!     In  the  first 

place,  I  didn't  see  why  she  had  to  disturb 

me  any  more  by  telling  me  she  wanted  to 

be  a  lady;  and,  in  the  second  place,  I  didn't 

42 


The  Redemption  of  Mabel  Muriel 

see  why  she  wanted  Sister  Edna  to  come  in. 
But  I  kept  still  for  a  minute,  and  she  went 
right  on. 

"  I'm  going  to  turn  over  a  new  leaf,"  she 
said,  "and  I  want  you  to  go  with  me  to 
Sister  Edna  and  tell  her  about  it  this  very 
minute.  I'm  afraid  to  go  alone." 

"  Well,"  I  said,  "  I  should  think  you  would 
be!  What  has  Sister  Edna  to  do  with  it? 
Why  don't  you  wait  till  morning  and  tell 
Sister  Irmingarde?"  But  Mabel  Muriel 
shook  her  head. 

"  No,"  she  said.  "  I'm  in  the  humor  now, 
and  I'm  going  to  do  it  now.  And  I'm  go 
ing  to  Sister  Edna  because  Sister  Edna  is 
my  ideal.  I'm  going  to  be  just  like  her  be 
fore  I  get  through." 

I  couldn't  help  smiling,  and  she  saw  it  and 
got  very  red.  Sister  Edna  is  the  loveliest 
and  the  most  gifted  nun  at  St.  Catharine's. 
She  is  perfectly  charming,  but  very,  very 
reserved.  She  is  really  just  like  a  polished 
woman  of  the  world  in  her  manner  and  her 
43 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

opinions  of  things,  but  she  is  very  spiritual, 
too,  and  "edifying,"  as  the  nuns  say.  Deep 
in  her  heart  she  must  have  felt  those  days 
exactly  as  we  did  about  Mabel  Muriel,  for 
she  is  such  a  thoroughbred  to  her  finger 
tips,  and  so  particular  about  every  little 
thing  in  manners  and  conduct.  She  teaches 
the  history  classes,  and  I  can  tell  you  we  hold 
our  shoulders  back  when  we  meet  her  on 
the  campus.  She  walks  like  a  queen,  and 
she  is  the  neatest  thing —  Well,  I  wouldn't 
like  to  put  down  here  what  she  really  must 
have  thought  about  Mabel  Muriel's  hair  and 
nails.  But,  of  course,  she  always  treated 
Mabel  Muriel  exactly  as  she  did  the  rest  of 
us,  though  once  or  twice  she  hinted  little 
things  to  her,  very  subtly.  But  you  couldn't 
hint  to  Mabel  Muriel.  You  had  to  fix  your 
eyes  on  her  and  spell  it  right  out. 

I  began  to  get  interested.  I  suppose  my 
artistic  instinct  woke  up.  Mabel  Muriel 
must  have  seen  it  in  my  face,  though  I 
crawled  back  into  bed  and  drew  the  clothes 

44 


The  Redemption  of  Mabel  Muriel 

under  my  chin,  for  I  was  cold.  She  made 
herself  more  comfortable,  and  took  off  the 
cover  of  the  box  of  chocolates  she  was  carry 
ing,  of  course,  and  offered  me  some.  I 
couldn't  eat  it — after  that  fudge! — but  she 
didn't  mind.  She  chewed  away  and  talked 
with  her  mouth  full,  just  the  way  she  always 
did. 

"You  see,"  she  went  on,  "I've  just  kind 
of  made  up  my  mind  that  I'm  different 
from  most  of  you  girls,  and  there  isn't  any 
reason  why  I  should  be  that  I  know  of.  My 
paw's  got  money  enough  to  get  me  anything 
I  want.  And  if  I  want  a  special  course  in 
manners  and  all  that,  I  guess  he  can  pay  for 
it." 

Then  I  reminded  her  that  we  hadn't  any 
special  course  in  manners  at  St.  Catharine's, 
and  that  such  training  came  with  the  rest. 
The  sisters,  I  said,  spoke  of  any  little  things 
they  noticed — but  here  Mabel  Muriel  inter 
rupted  me. 

" That's  just  it,"  she  said.  " They  aren't 
45 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

little  things,  in  my  case.  They're  big  ones. 
The  rest  of  you  girls — most  of  you,  anyhow 
— get  trained  in  such  things  at  home.  I 
don't,  and  I  need  a  lot  of  it,  and  it's  going 
to  take  all  Sister  Edna's  time  to  do  it.  But 
I  bet  she  can  do  it,  and  paw  will  pay  her 
well.  It  will  be  a  special,  extra  course,  like 
music  or  painting." 

Of  course,  my  experience  of  life  has  been 
great,  and  my  study  of  it  ''broad  and  thor 
ough,"  like  our  courses  at  St.  Catharine's, 
but  even  I  felt  strangely  helpless  when 
Mabel  Muriel  was  talking.  Still,  I  could  see 
that  it  was  a  good  idea,  and  I  said  so. 

"  But,"  I  said,  "  you  go  back  to  bed  now, 
and  in  the  morning  we'll  go  together  to 
Sister  Irmingarde — 

"Not  on  your  life!"  said  Mabel  Muriel 
Murphy.  I  was  deeply  shocked,  but  she 
said  it  and  she  meant  it.  She  had  acquired 
some  vulgar  expressions  in  her  home  town. 

"I'm  like  paw,"  she  went  on.  "When 
he  makes  up  his  mind  to  do  things  he  just 
46 


The  Redemption  of  Mabel  Muriel 

goes  and  does  them.  I've  been  thinking 
this  over  for  weeks.  Now  I  want  it  settled. 
Will  you  come  with  me  to  Sister  Edna,  or 
won't  you?" 

It  is  natural  to  a  great  nature  to  help  the 
weak.  I  went.  I  strive  to  know  myself,  and 
to  be  honest,  so  I  will  confess  that  I  went 
because  I  wanted  to  see  what  would  happen. 
I  put  on  a  bath-robe  over  my  night-gown, 
and  slipped  my  bare  feet  into  my  Turkish 
bedroom  slippers  with  the  gold  embroidery 
on  them,  and  I  looked  in  the  glass  at  my 
hair,  and  it  was  all  right,  and  so  were  my 
nails. 

Sister  Edna  slept  in  a  dormitory  with 
twelve  of  the  smaller  girls.  She  had  a  little 
place  in  one  corner,  all  curtained  off,  and  a 
bed  and  a  wash-stand.  And  if  the  children 
got  sick  in  the  middle  of  the  night  it  was  very 
convenient  to  get  up  and  take  care  of  them 
— it  was  convenient  for  them,  I  mean.  It 
seemed  too  good  to  be  true,  but  the  transom 
over  her  class-room  door  showed  that  a  dim 
47 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

light  was  burning  inside,  and  we  knew  she 
was  there.  We  rapped,  and  she  came  to  the 
door.  I  wish  you  could  have  seen  her  face 
when  she  saw  us — Mabel  Muriel  in  her  white 
lace  dressing-gown,  and  me  in  a  woolly 
bath-robe,  and  both  of  us  scared  to  death. 
For  it  must  have  dawned  on  even  Mabel 
Muriel  that  the  situation  in  which  we  two 
young  girls  were  placed  was  embarrassing. 

The  very  minute  Sister  Edna  turned  her 
big,  brown  eyes  on  us  I  remembered  that  I 
hadn't  put  on  my  stockings.  Of  course  she 
couldn't  really  see  that,  but  somehow  I  felt 
as  if  she  could,  and  I  just  wriggled.  As  for 
Mabel  Muriel,  she  sneaked  behind  me  and 
left  me  to  speak  for  her.  That  shows,  too, 
the  kind  of  girl  she  was.  Neither  of  us 
spoke  —  I  couldn't,  and  Mabel  Muriel 
wouldn't — and  Sister  Edna  raised  her  eye 
brows  a  little  in  a  way  she  had. 

"What  is  it,  girls?"  she  said.  "Are  you 
ill?"  Then  Mabel  Muriel  gave  me  a  pinch 
and  an  awful  push,  to  show  me  that  I  was 
48 


The  Redemption  of  Mabel  Muriel 

to  explain.  I  hadn't  expected  it,  and  I  lost 
my  balance  and  fell  against  Sister  Edna, 
and  I  was  so  angry  I  just  said  right  out  what 
I  thought. 

"It's  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy,  Sister,"  I 
said,  "  and  she  wants  to  be  a  lady.  I  tried 
to  make  her  wait  till  morning  to  begin,  but 
she  wouldn't ;  and  now  I  think  myself  she'd 
better  begin  at  once." 

Sister  Edna  stood  looking  at  us  for  a  mo 
ment  without  a  word,  and  then  a  little 
twinkle  came  into  her  eyes  and  her  lips 
twitched,  and  I  knew  she  had  grasped  the 
whole  situation  in  the  wonderful  way  they 
have.  They  read  your  very  thoughts,  you 
know,  and  many,  many  are  the  hours  we 
girls  have  to  spend  in  distant  haunts  in  the 
grounds  to  keep  the  sisters  from  looking  at 
us  and  reading  our  most  secret  plans  in  our 
young  faces.  I  don't  know  how  they  do  it, 
but  they  do.  Well,  Sister  Edna  came  out 
and  led  us  to  a  class-room  across  the  hall, 
and  motioned  to  chairs,  and,  dear  me! 
49 


May   Iverson — Her    Book 

how  I  did  long  for  those  stockings!  But 
Mabel  Muriel  never  turned  a  hair.  I  for 
got  to  say  that,  of  course,  Sister  Edna  was 
as  immaculate  as  if  she  had  been  at  mass 
that  moment.  Not  a  pin  was  out  of  place. 
You  would  think,  wouldn't  you,  that  they 
would  take  off  their  heavy  veils  or  linen 
guimpes  or  other  things  when  they  are  all 
alone  and  busy ;  but,  if  they  ever  do,  no  hu 
man  eye  but  their  own  has  rested  on  the  re 
sult.  Sister  Edna  turned  to  Mabel  Muriel 
and  spoke  in  her  cool,  exquisite  voice,  that 
always  makes  you  feel  somehow  as  if  you 
were  seven  hundred  miles  away  from  her. 

"You  know  this  is  very  unusual,  Miss 
Murphy,"  she  said.  "I  hope  it  is  also  im 
portant  enough  to  justify  such  a  departure 
from  the  rules.  If  it  is,  you  may  speak — 
but  as  briefly  and  as  much  to  the  point  as 
you  can,  please." 

It  was  not  possible  to  disturb  for  long  the 
self -content  of  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy.  She 
leaned  her  head  against  the  back  of  her  chair 


The  Redemption  of  Mabel  Muriel 

— we  were  all  sitting  down  by  that  time, 
Sister  Edna  at  her  desk  and  we  girls  in  front 
of  her — and  she  answered  in  the  queer  drawl 
she  had. 

"Well,  Sister  Edna,"  she  said,  "it's  im 
portant  to  me,  and  it's  important  to  you, 
too,  I  guess,  because  you're  going  to  be  in 
it."  And  then  she  told  Sister  Edna  the 
whole  plan,  about  as  she  had  told  me.  Sis 
ter  Edna  did  not  interrupt ;  she  waited  with 
beautiful  courtesy  until  it  was  all  out,  and 
then  she  stood  up  with  a  gentle  firmness  and 
somehow  convinced  even  Mabel  Muriel  that 
she  could  not  spend  the  night  there.  But 
she  was  very  sweet,  too,  and  encouraging. 

"It  is  an  excellent  plan,  Miss  Murphy," 
she  said,  "  so  far  as  it  concerns  yourself,  and 
I  am  very  glad  you  have  made  it.  But  it 
cannot  be  discussed  at  all  to-night.  If  you 
will  come  to  me  in  the  morning  we  will  go 
into  it  carefully,  and  I  am  sure  you  may 
count  on  assistance  from  us  all  —  both 
teachers  and  pupils." 
51 


May   Iverson — Her   Book 

Mabel  Muriel  never  budged.  She  had 
thick  lips,  and  they  looked  stubborn  no,w. 

"But  I  want  you,"  she  said.  "I  don't 
want  any  one  else.  And  I  want  you  to 
make  me  just  like  you." 

Sister  Edna  smiled  again.  I  was  hoping 
she  would  look  at  me  and  meet  the  glance 
of  understanding  in  my  eye,  but  she  did  not. 
She  gently  ushered  us  to  the  door,  and  be 
fore  we  knew  quite  how  it  happened  we 
were  saying  good -night,  and  Sister  Edna 
had  said  that  neither  she  nor  Mabel  Muriel 
could  decide  the  question  of  Miss  Murphy's 
instructors,  and  that  she  thought  the  whole 
matter  could  safely  "lie  on  the  table"  until 
morning.  Then  she  told  -us  to  go  directly 
to  our  rooms,  and  we  did ;  and  somehow  the 
excitement  had  done  me  good,  for  I  went 
right  to  sleep. 

The  next  morning  Mabel  Muriel  and  Sis 
ter  Edna  and  Sister  Irmingarde  had  a  long 
interview,  and  when  Mabel  Muriel  came  out 
she  held  her  chest  out  and  her  chin  very 
52 


The  Redemption  of  Mabel  Muriel 

high,  so  we  knew  the  great  work  had  begun. 
She  said  I  might  tell  the  girls  about  it;  so 
I  did,  and  I  said  we  must  help,  and  they  all 
said  they  would.  They  tried,  too,  but 
there  was  not  much  they  could  do,  for 
Mabel  Muriel  would  not  let  them.  She  did 
not  seem  to  appreciate  the  beautiful  spirit 
we  showed.  When  she  came  into  class  she 
looked  very  spick  and  span,  and  her  hair 
was  neat  and  her  nails  were  clean.  We 
noticed  that  first.  Then  we  saw  that  she 
was  not  chewing  anything  behind  Sister 
Irmingarde's  back,  and  that  she  sat  up  in 
her  seat  instead  of  lounging  the  way  she 
always  did.  She  didn't  look  especially  hap 
py,  but  I  suppose  we  should  not  have  ex 
pected  that.  I  have  already  noticed,  young 
as  I  am,  that  it  is  only  in  literature  that 
people  are  perfectly  happy  the  minute  they 
begin  to  be  good.  In  real  life  they  are 
usually  missing  so  much  that  it  makes  them 
cross.  There  was  the  gleam  of  a  deadly 
resolution  in  Mabel  Muriel's  bulging,  gray 
s  S3 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

eyes,  though,  and  that  took  the  place  of  a 
spiritual  expression.  That  night  she  tele 
graphed  home  not  to  send  any  more  candy 
or  boxes  for  a  while,  and  she  came  to  my 
room  and  got  the  names  of  the  cold  cream 
and  tooth-paste  I  use.  She  used  as  much 
slang  as  ever,  but  of  course  the  sisters 
could  not  do  everything  for  her  at  once,  and 
they  had  wisely  begun  on  the  really  vital 
things.  Tidying  Mabel  up  was  no  trifling 
matter. 

For  the  next  week  or  two  we  girls  didn't 
do  much  but  watch  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy 
and  talk  about  her  progress.  It  was  almost 
like  a  miracle.  Of  course,  her  plan  of  hav 
ing  Sister  Edna  all  the  time  had  not  suc 
ceeded,  but  she  reported  to  Sister  Edna 
every  morning  and  evening,  and  was  with 
her  about  an  hour  each  time.  At  first  we 
felt  surprised  when  we  saw  Mabel  Muriel 
looking  nice  or  doing  things  properly,  but 
after  a  few  weeks  we  got  used  to  it,  and  then 
we  only  spoke  about  her  when  she  was  care- 
54 


The  Redemption  of  Mabel  Muriel 

less  or  anything  of  that  kind.  And  I  can 
not  tell  you  how  rarely  that  was.  She 
never  slipped  back,  she  never  lost  interest, 
and,  what  was  more,  she  never  lost  patience. 
Sister  Edna,  too,  said  it  was  the  most  re 
markable  transformation  she  had  ever  seen. 
I  don't  think  any  of  us  realized  how  few 
times  we  had  to  criticise  her,  and  I'm  sure 
I,  for  one,  never  stopped  to  think  how  quiet 
ly  and  coolly  and  absolutely  Mabel  Muriel 
was  becoming  one  of  us.  She  was  in  our 
classes,  and  she  was  studying,  and  as  the 
months  went  on  she  looked  and  acted  like 
all  the  rest  of  us — only  better.  Very  early 
in  the  affair  her  room  began  to  look  differ 
ent.  She  sent  home  most  of  her  pictures 
and  gave  away  her  furniture  (when  it  was 
scattered  all  over,  one  piece  here  and  an 
other  there,  it  didn't  look  so  bad),  and  her 
new  things  were  quiet  and  in  good  taste. 
She  never  mentioned  money  any  more. 
Finally  we  no  longer  spoke  of  the  bad  things 
she  didn't  do,  because  they  were  none;  and, 
55 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

besides,  we  were  kept  busy  noticing  the 
nice  things  she  did  do.  Who  was  it  that 
always  remembered  the  sick  girls  and  vis 
ited  them  and  wrote  their  home  letters? 
It  was  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy.  Who  was 
nicest  to  the  lonely  new  girls  and  tenderest 
to  the  little  minims  ?  Again  it  was  Mabel 
Muriel.  Who  always  had  her  room  and 
desk  and  bureau  -  drawers  in  perfect  con 
dition,  and  who  never  used  slang  or  made 
careless  grammatical  mistakes  in  conver 
sation?  Once  more  it  was  Mabel  Muriel 
Murphy. 

When  she  came  back  the  next  year  we 
thought  she  would  drop  her  special  course 
in  manners,  because  it  was  not  necessary, 
but  she  did  not.  She  kept  right  at  it,  two 
hours  a  day,  and  even  at  other  times  we 
saw  her  on  the  campus  with  Sister  Edna, 
or  met  them  together  at  some  of  the  shrines 
scattered  through  the  grounds.  We  after 
wards  learned  that  Sister  Edna  was  going 
very  deeply  into  things  by  that  time,  and 


The  Redemption  of  Mabel  Muriel 

superintending  Mabel  Muriel's  reading  and 
giving  her  a  kind  of  special  ethical  course. 
I  think  I  can  say  I  was  the  first  of  the  girls 
to  realize,  during  the  second  year,  that 
Mabel  Muriel  had  become  a  power  at  St. 
Catharine's,  though  my  chum,  Mabel  Blos 
som,  says  she  felt  it  coming. 

Mabel  Blossom  and  Maudie  Joyce  and  I 
had  run  things  pretty  much  as  we  pleased 
until  then.  The  girls  all  liked  us,  and  we 
held  together  and  usually  agreed  on  what 
was  best  for  them,  so  there  was  no  trouble. 
But  all  of  a  sudden  we  learned  that  if  we 
wanted  to  see  our  old  crowd  we'd  have  to 
go  to  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy's  room!  I  need 
not  add  that  to  sensitive,  artistic  natures 
like  ours  this  discovery  was  a  shock.  Then 
we  found  that  the  girls  were  criticising  us! 
They  .thought  we  were  often  careless  about 
lessons  and  matters  of  dress  and  good  form. 
And  so,  little  by  little,  the  bitter  truth  came 
home  to  us  that  we  three  girls,  the  old  lead 
ers  of  the  school,  would  have  to  live  up  to 
57 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

Mabel  Muriel  Murphy.    It  was  Maudie  Joyce 
who  first  voiced  this  humiliating  truth. 

"We've  got  to  let  her  in,"  she  said,  "to 
our  very  innermost  circle."  And  it  was 
Mabel  Blossom  who  replied,  while  I  sat  in 
a  depressed  silence: 

"Humph!  Will  she  come  in  after  we've 
fefher?" 

She  would  not !  She  had  set  a  new  stand 
ard,  and  we  three  just  had  to  painfully 
climb  up  to  it.  For  Mabel  Muriel  never 
failed,  never  forgot,  never  for  a  single  in 
stant  lost  sight  of  the  fact  that  Sister  Edna 
was  her  ideal,  and  that  she  meant  to  be  ex 
actly  like  her.  She  was,  too,  more  and  more, 
except  that  she  never  got  her  lovely  nature, 
though  there  is  no  doubt  that  Sister  Edna 
developed  a  moral  sense  in  her ;  and  by  that 
time  Mabel  Muriel  was  copying  all  Sister 
Edna's  ways.  Mabel  Blossom  said  it  was 
by  the  clothing  alone  that  she  distinguished 
between  the  two  when  she  met  them  on  the 
campus,  but  Mabel  Blossom  still  has  mo- 
58 


The  Redemption  of  Mabel  Muriel 

ments  of  girlish  frivolity.  I  sometimes  fear 
she  will  never  realize  how  serious  life  is.  It 
seemed  terribly  serious  to  me  when  I  found 
I'd  have  to  regard  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy  as 
a  model! 

They  give  an  annual  prize  at  St.  Catha 
rine's,  called  the  Cross  of  Honor.  It  goes 
to  the  finest  all-round  girl  at  school — the 
best  student,  the  noblest  character ;  in  short, 
the  girl  the  nuns  think  is  the  representative 
girl  of  the  academy.  You  will  never  guess 
who  got  it  this  year,  for  I  am  keeping  that 
as  the  climax — which  is  the  real  test  of  art 
in  literature. 

It  was  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy  I  with  the 
emphasis  increased. 


Ill 


Kittie's    Sister   Josephine 

ITTIE  JAMES  told  me  this 
about  her  sister  Josephine, 
and  when  she  saw  my  eye 
light  up  the  way  the  true 
artist's  does  when  he  hears 
a  good  plot,  she  said  I  might  use  it,  if  I 
liked,  the  next  time  I  "  practised  literature." 
I  don't  think  that  was  a  very  nice  way 
to  say  it,  especially  when  one  remembers 
that  Sister  Irmingarde  read  three  chapters 
of  my  book  to  the  class  in  four  months ;  and 
as  I  only  write  one  every  week,  you  can  see 
yourself  what  a  good  average  that  was. 
But  it  takes  noble  souls  to  be  humble  in  the 
presence  of  the  gifted,  and  enthusiastic  over 
their  success,  so  only  two  of  my  classmates 
60 


Kittie's   Sister  Josephine 

seemed  really  happy  when  Sister  Irmin- 
garde  read  the  third  chapter  aloud.  It  is 
hardly  necessary  to  mention  the  names  of 
these  beautiful  natures,  already  so  well 
known  to  my  readers,  but  I  will  do  it.  They 
were  Maudie  Joyce  and  Mabel  Blossom, 
and  they  are  my  dearest  friends  at  St.  Cath 
arine's.  And  some  day  when  I  am  a  real 
writer  and  the  name  of  May  Iverson  shines 
in  gold  letters  on  the  tablets  of  fame,  I'll 
write  a  book  and  dedicate  it  to  them.  Then, 
indeed,  they  will  be  glad  they  knew  me  in 
my  school-girl  days,  and  recognized  real 
merit  when  they  saw  it,  and  did  not  mind 
the  queer  things  my  artistic  temperament 
often  makes  me  do.  Oh,  what  a  slave  is 
one  to  this  artistic,  emotional  nature,  and 
how  unhappy,  how  misunderstood !  I  don't 
mean  that  I  am  unhappy  all  the  time,  of 
course,  but  I  have  Moods.  And  when  I 
have  them  life  seems  so  hollow,  so  empty, 
so  terrible!  At  such  times  natures  that  do 
not  understand  me  are  apt  to  make  mis- 
61 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

takes,  the  way  Sister  Irmingarde  did  when 
she  thought  I  had  nervous  dyspepsia  and 
made  me  walk  three  miles  every  day,  when 
all  the  time  it  was  just  Soul  that  was  the 
matter  with  me.  Still,  I  must  admit  the 
exercise  helped  me.  It  is  so  soothing,  so 
restful,  so  calming  to  walk  on  dear  Nature's 
breast.  Maudie  Joyce  and  Mabel  Blossom 
always  know  the  minute  an  attack  of  artis 
tic  temperament  begins  in  me.  Then  they 
go  away  quietly  and  reverently,  and  I  write 
a  chapter  and  feel  better. 

So  this  time  I  am  going  to  tell  about 
Kittie  James's  sister  Josephine.  In  the 
very  beginning  I  must  explain  that  Joseph 
ine  James  used  to  be  a  pupil  at  St.  Catha 
rine's  herself,  ages  and  ages  ago,  and  finally 
she  graduated  and  left,  and  began  to  go  into 
society  and  look  around  and  decide  what 
her  life-work  should  be.  That  was  long, 
long  before  our  time — as  much  as  ten  years, 
I  should  think,  and  poor  Josephine  must  be 
twenty-eight  or  twenty-nine  years  old  now. 
62 


KITTIE    SAYS    JOSEPHINE    IS    NOT    A    BIT    POKY 


Kittie's   Sister  Josephine 

But  Kittie  says  she  is  just  as  nice  as  she 
can  be,  and  not  a  bit  poky,  and  so  active 
and  interested  in  life  you'd  think  she  was 
young.  Of  course,  I  know  such  things  can 
be,  for  my  own  sister  Grace,  Mrs.  George 
Verbeck,  is  perfectly  lovely,  and  the  most 
popular  woman  in  the  society  of  our  city. 
But  Grace  is  married,  and  perhaps  that 
makes  a  difference.  It  is  said  that  love 
keeps  the  spirit  young.  However,  perhaps 
I'd  better  go  on  about  Josephine  and  not 
dwell  on  that.  Experienced  as  we  girls  are, 
and  drinking  of  life  in  deep  draughts  though 
we  do,  we  still  admit — Maudie,  Mabel,  and 
I — that  we  do  not  yet  know  much  about 
love.  But  one  cannot  know  everything  at 
fifteen,  and,  as  Mabel  Blossom  always  says, 
"  there  is  yet  time."  We  all  know  just  the 
kind  of  men  they're  going  to  be,  though. 
Mine  will  be  a  brave  young  officer,  of  course, 
for  a  general's  daughter  should  not  marry 
out  of  the  army,  and  he  will  die  for  his 
country,  leaving  me  with  a  broken  heart. 
63 


May   Iverson — Her   Book 

Maudie  Joyce  says  hers  must  be  a  man  who 
will  rule  her  with  a  rod  of  iron  and  break 
her  will  and  win  her  respect,  and  then  be 
gentle  and  loving  and  tender.  And  Mabel 
Blossom  says  she's  perfectly  sure  hers  will 
be  fat,  and  have  a  blond  mustache  and 
laugh  a  great  deal.  Once  she  said  maybe 
none  of  us  would  ever  get  any;  but  the  look 
Maudie  Joyce  and  I  turned  upon  her  check 
ed  her  thoughtless  words.  Life  is  bitter 
enough  as  it  is  without  thinking  of  dreadful 
things  in  the  future.  I  sometimes  fear  that 
underneath  her  girlish  gayety  Mabel  Blos 
som  conceals  a  morbid  nature.  But  I  am 
forgetting  Josephine  James.  This  story 
will  tell  why,  with  all  her  advantages  of 
wealth  and  education  and  beauty,  she  re 
mained  a  maiden  lady  till  she  was  twenty- 
eight;  and  she  might  have  kept  on,  too,  if 
Kittie  had  not  taken  matters  in  hand  and 
settled  them  for  her. 

Kittie  says  Josephine  was  always  roman 
tic  and  spent  long  hours  of  her  young  life 
64 


Kittie's   Sister  Josephine 

in  girlish  reveries  and  dreams.  Of  course, 
that  isn't  the  way  Kittie  said  it,  but  if  I 
should  tell  this  in  her  crude,  unformed  fash 
ion,  you  wouldn't  read  very  far.  What 
Kittie  really  said  was  that  Josephine  used 
to  "moon  around  the  grounds  a  lot  and 
bawl,  and  even  try  to  write  poetry."  I 
understand  Josephine's  nature,  so  I  will  go 
on  in  my  own  way,  but  you  must  remember 
that  some  of  the  credit  belongs  to  Kittie  and 
Mabel  Blossom;  and  if  Sister  Irmingarde 
reads  this  chapter  in  class,  they  can  stand 
right  up  with  me  when  the  author  is  called 
for. 

Well,  when  Josephine  James  graduated 
she  got  a  lot  of  prizes  and  things,  for  she 
was  a  clever  girl,  and  had  not  spent  all  her 
time  writing  poetry  and  thinking  deep 
thoughts  about  life.  She  realized  the  price 
less  advantages  of  a  broad  and  thorough 
education  and  of  association  with  the  most 
cultivated  minds.  That  sentence  comes 
out  of  our  prospectus.  Then  she  went 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

• 

home  and  went  out  a  good  deal,  and  was 
very  popular  and  stopped  writing  poetry, 
and  her  dear  parents  began  to  feel  happy  and 
hopeful  about  her,  and  think  she  would  mar 
ry  and  have  a  nice  family,  which  is,  indeed, 
woman's  highest,  noblest  mission  in  life.  But 
all  the  time  Josephine  cherished  an  ideal. 

A  great  many  young  men  came  to  see 
her,  and  Kittie  liked  one  of  them  very  much 
indeed — better  than  all  the  others.  He  was 
handsome,  and  he  laughed  and  joked  a  good 
deal,  and  always  brought  Kittie  big  boxes 
of  candy  and  called  her  his  little  sister.  He 
said  she  was  going  to  be  that  in  the  end, 
anyhow,  and  there  was  no  use  waiting  to 
give  her  the  title  that  his  heart  dictated. 
He  said  it  just  that  way.  When  he  took 
Josephine  out  in  his  automobile  he'd  say, 
"  Let's  take  the  kid,  too,"  and  they  would, 
and  it  did  not  take  Kittie  long  to  understand 
how  things  were  between  George  Morgan — 
for  that  was  indeed  his  name  —  and  her 
sister.  Little  do  grown-up  people  realize 
66 


Kittie's   Sister  Josephine 

how  intelligent  are  the  minds  of  the  young, 
and  how  keen  and  penetrating  their  youth 
ful  gaze !  Clearly  do  I  recall  some  things 
that  happened  at  home,  and  it  would  startle 
papa  and  mamma  to  know  I  know  them, 
but  I  will  not  reveal  them  here.  Once  I 
would  have  done  so,  in  the  beginning  of  my 
art;  but  now  I  have  learned  to  finish  one 
chapter  before  I  begin  another. 

Little  did  Mr.  Morgan  and  Josephine  wot 
that  every  time  she  refused  him  Kittie's 
young  heart  burned  beneath  its  sense  of 
wrong,  for  she  did  refuse  him  almost  every 
time  they  went  out  together,  and  yet  she 
kept  right  on  going.  You  would  think 
she  wouldn't,  but  women's  natures  are  in 
deed  inscrutable.  Some  authors  would 
stop  here  and  tell  what  was  in  Josephine's 
heart,  but  this  is  not  that  kind  of  literature. 
Kittie  was  only  twelve  then,  and  they  used 
big  words  and  talked  in  a  queer  way  they 
thought  she  would  not  understand,  but  she 
did,  every  time,  and  she  never  missed  a 
67 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

single  word  they  said.  Of  course,  she  wasn't 
listening  exactly,  you  see,  because  they 
knew  she  was  there.  That  makes  it  differ 
ent  and  quite  proper.  For  if  Kittie  was 
more  intelligent  than  her  elders  it  was  not 
the  poor  child's  fault. 

Things  went  on  like  that  and  got  worse 
and  worse,  and  they  had  been  going  on 
that  way  for  five  years.  One  day  Kittie 
was  playing  tennis  with  George  at  the  Coun 
try  Club,  and  he  had  been  very  kind  to  her, 
and  all  of  a  sudden  Kittie  told  him  she 
knew  all,  and  how  sorry  she  was  for  him, 
and  that  if  he  would  wait  till  she  grew 
up  she  would  marry  him  herself.  The 
poor  child  was  so  young,  you  see,  that  she 
did  not  know  how  unmaidenly  this  was. 
And  of  course  at  St.  Catharine's,  when  they 
taught  us  how  to  enter  and  leave  rooms  and 
how  to  act  in  society  and  at  the  table,  they 
didn't  think  to  tell  us  not  to  ask  young  men 
to  marry  us.  I  can  add  with  confidence 
that  Kittie  James  was  the  only  girl  who 
68 


Kittie's   Sister  Josephine 

ever  did.     I  asked  the  rest  afterwards,  and 
they  were  deeply  shocked  at  the  idea. 

Well,  anyhow,  Kittie  did  it,  and  she  said 
George  was  just  as  nice  as  he  could  be.  He 
told  her  he  had  "never  listened  to  a  more 
alluring  proposition"  (she  remembered  just 
the  words  he  used),  and  that  she  was  "a  lit 
tle  trump";  and  then  he  said  he  feared, 
alas!  it  was  impossible,  as  even  his  strong 
manhood  could  not  face  the  prospect  of 
the  long  and  dragging  years  that  lay  be 
tween.  Besides,  he  said,  his  heart  was  al 
ready  given,  and  he  guessed  he'd  better 
stick  to  Josephine,  and  would  his  little  sis 
ter  help  him  to  get  her  ?  Kittie  wiped  her 
eyes  and  said  she  would.  She  had  been 
crying.  It  must,  indeed,  be  a  bitter  expe 
rience  to  have  one's  young  heart  spurned! 
But  George  took  her  into  the  club-house 
and  gave  her  tea  and  lots  of  English  muffins 
and  jam,  and,  somehow,  Kittie  cheered  up, 
for  she  couldn't  help  feeling  there  were  still 
some  things  in  life  that  were  nice. 
6  69 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

Of  course,  after  that  she  wanted  dread 
fully  to  help  George,  but  there  didn't  seem 
to  be  much  she  could  do.  Besides,  she  had 
to  go  right  back  to  school  in  September, 
and,  being  a  studious  child,  I  need  hardly 
add  that  her  entire  mind  was  then  given  to 
her  studies.  When  she  went  home  for  the 
Christmas  holidays  she  took  Mabel  Blos 
som  with  her.  Mabel  was  more  than  a  year 
older,  but  Kittie  looked  up  to  her,  as  it  is 
well  the  young  should  do  to  us  older  girls. 
Besides,  Kittie  had  had  her  thirteenth  birth 
day  in  November,  and  she  was  letting  down 
her  skirts  a  little  and  beginning  to  think  of 
putting  up  her  hair.  She  said  when  she 
remembered  that  she  asked  George  to  wait 
till  she  grew  up  it  made  her  blush,  so  you 
see  she  was  developing  very  fast. 

As  I  said  before,  she  took  Mabel  Blossom 
home  for  Christmas,  and  Mr.  and  Mrs. 
James  were  lovely  to  her,  and  she  had  a 
beautiful  time.  But  Josephine  was  the 
best  of  all.  She  was  just  fine.  Mabel  told 
70 


Kittie's   Sister  Josephine 

me  with  her  own  lips  that  if  she  hadn't  seen 
Josephine  James's  name  on  the  catalogue 
as  a  graduate  in  '93  she  never  would  have 
believed  she  was  so  old.  Josephine  took 
the  two  girls  to  matinees  and  gave  a  little 
tea  for  them,  and  George  Morgan  was  as 
nice  as  she  was.  He  was  always  bringing 
them  candy  and  violets,  exactly  as  if  they 
were  young  ladies,  and  he  treated  them 
both  with  the  greatest  respect,  and  stopped 
calling  them  the  kids  when  he  found  they 
didn't  like  it.  Mabel  got  as  fond  of  him  as 
Kittie  was,  and  they  were  both  wild  to  help 
him  to  get  Josephine  to  marry  him;  but 
she  wouldn't,  though  Kittie  finally  talked 
to  her  long  and  seriously.  I  asked  Kittie 
what  Josephine  said  when  she  did  that, 
and  she  confessed  that  Josephine  had 
laughed  so  she  couldn't  say  anything. 
That  hurt  the  sensitive  child,  of  course, 
but  grown  -  ups  are  all  too  frequently 
thoughtless  of  such  things.  Had  Joseph 
ine  but  listened  to  Kittie's  words  on  that 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

occasion,  it  would  have  saved  Kittie  a  lot 
of  trouble. 

Now  I  am  getting  to  the  exciting  part  of 
the  chapter.  I  am  always  so  glad  when  I 
get  to  that.  I  asked  Sister  Irmingarde  why 
one  couldn't  just  make  the  whole  thing  out 
of  the  exciting  part,  and  she  took  a  good 
deal  of  time  to  explain  why,  but  she  did  not 
convince  me ;  for  besides  having  the  artistic 
temperament  I  am  strangely  logical  for  one 
so  young.  Some  day  I  will  write  a  chapter 
that  is  all  climax  from  beginning  to  end. 
That  will  show  her !  But  at  present  I  must 
go  on  with  this  according  to  the  severe  and 
cramping  rules  which  she  and  literature 
have  laid  down. 

One  night  Mrs.  James  gave  a  large  party 
for  Josephine,  and  of  course  Mabel  and  Kit- 
tie,  being  thirteen  and  fourteen,  had  to  go 
to  bed.  It  is  such  things  as  this  that  em 
bitter  the  lives  of  school-girls.  But  they 
were  allowed  to  go  down  and  see  all  the 
lights  and  flowers  and  decorations  before 
72 


Kittie's   Sister  Josephine 

people  began  to  come,  and  they  went  into 
the  conservatory  because  that  was  fixed  up 
with  little  nooks  and  things.  They  got 
away  in  and  off  in  a  kind  of  wing  of  it,  and 
they  talked  and  pretended  they  were  de 
butantes  at  the  ball,  so  they  stayed  longer 
than  they  knew.  Then  they  heard  voices, 
and  they  looked  and  saw  Josephine  and 
Mr.  Morgan  sitting  by  the  fountain.  Be 
fore  they  could  move  or  say  they  were 
there,  they  heard  him  say  this — Kittie  re 
membered  just  what  it  was: 

"I  have  spent  six  years  following  you, 
and  you've  treated  me  as  if  I  were  a  dog 
at  the  end  of  a  string.  This  thing  must 
end.  I  must  have  you,  or  I  must  learn  to 
live  without  you,  and  I  must  know  now 
which  it  is  to  be.  Josephine,  you  must  give 
me  my  final  answer  to-night." 

Wasn't  it  embarrassing  for  Kittie  and 

Mabel?    They  did  not  want  to  listen,  but 

some    instinct    told    them    Josephine    and 

George  might  not  be  glad  to  see  them  then, 

73 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

so  they  crept  behind  a  lot  of  tall  palms  and 
Mabel  put  her  fingers  in  her  ears  so  she 
wouldn't  hear.  Kittie  didn't.  She  ex 
plained  to  me  afterwards  that  she  thought 
it  being  her  sister  made  things  kind  of  dif 
ferent.  It  was  all  in  the  family,  anyhow. 
So  Kittie  heard  Josephine  tell  Mr.  Morgan 
that  the  reason  she  did  not  marry  him  was 
because  he  was  an  idler  and  without  an 
ambition  or  a  purpose  in  life.  And  she  said 
she  must  respect  the  man  she  married  as 
well  as  love  him.  Then  George  jumped  up 
quickly  and  asked  if  she  loved  him,  and  she 
cried  and  said  she  did,  but  that  she  would 
never,  never  marry  him  until  he  did  some 
thing  to  win  her  admiration  and  prove  he 
was  a  man.  You  can  imagine  how  exciting 
it  was  for  Kittie  to  see  with  her  own  inno 
cent  eyes  how  grown-up  people  manage 
such  things.  She  said  she  was  so  afraid 
she'd  miss  something  that  she  opened  them 
so  wide  they  hurt  her  afterwards.  But  she 
didn't  miss  anything.  She  saw  him  kiss 
74 


Kittie's  Sister  Josephine 

Josephine,  too,  and  then  Josephine  got  up, 
and  he  argued  and  tried  to  make  her  change 
her  mind,  and  she  wouldn't,  and  finally  they 
left  the  conservatory.  After  that  Kittie 
and  Mabel  crept  out  and  rushed  up-stairs; 
it  was  time,  for  people  were  beginning  to 
come. 

The  next  morning  Kittie  turned  to  Mabel 
with  a  look  on  her  face  which  Mabel  had 
never  seen  there  before.  It  was  grim  and 
determined.  She  said  she  had  a  plan  and 
wanted  Mabel  to  help  her,  and  not  ask  any 
questions,  but  get  her  skates  and  come  out. 
Mabel  did,  and  they  went  straight  to  George 
Morgan's  house,  which  was  only  a  few 
blocks  away.  He  was  very  rich  and  had  a 
beautiful  house.  An  English  butler  came 
to  the  door.  Mabel  said  she  was  so  fright 
ened  her  teeth  chattered,  but  he  smiled 
when  he  saw  Kittie,  and  said,  yes,  Mr. 
Morgan  was  home  and  at  breakfast,  and  in 
vited  them  in.  When  George  came  in  he 
had  a  smoking-jacket  on,  and  looked  very 
75 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

pale  and  sad  and  romantic,  Mabel  thought, 
but  he  smiled,  too,  when  he  saw  them,  and 
shook  hands  and  asked  them  if  they  had 
breakfasted. 

Kittie  said  yes,  but  they  had  come  to  ask 
him  to  take  them  skating,  and  they  were 
all  ready  and  had  brought  their  skates.  His 
face  fell,  as  real  writers  say,  and  he  hesi 
tated  a  little,  but  at  last  he  said  he'd  go, 
and  he  excused  himself,  just  as  if  they  had 
been  grown  up,  and  went  off  to  get  ready. 

When  they  were  left  alone  a  terrible  doubt 
assailed  Mabel,  and  she  asked  Kittie  if  she 
was  going  to  ask  George  again  to  marry 
her.  Kittie  blushed  and  said  she  was  not, 
of  course,  and  that  she  knew  better  now. 
For  it  is  indeed  true  that  the  human  heart 
is  not  so  easily  turned  from  its  dear  object. 
We  girls  know  that,  even  if  we  don't  know 
much.  We  know  that  if  once  one  truly 
loves  it  lasts  for  ever  and  ever  and  ever,  and 
then  one  dies  and  is  buried  with  things  the 
loved  one  wore. 

76 


Kittie's  Sister  Josephine 

Kittie  said  she  had  a  plan  to  help  George, 
and  all  Mabel  had  to  do  was  to  watch  and 
keep  on  breathing.  Mabel  felt  better  then, 
and  said  she  guessed  she  could  do  that. 
George  came  back  all  ready,  and  they  start 
ed  oil  Kittie  acted  rather  dark  and  mys 
terious,  but  Mabel  conversed  with  George 
in  the  easy  and  pleasant  fashion  young  men 
love.  She  told  him  all  about  school  and 
how  bad  she  was  in  algebra;  and  he  said 
he  had  been  a  duffer  at  it,  too,  but  that  he 
had  learned  to  shun  it  while  there  was  yet 
time.  And  he  advised  her  very  earnestly  to 
have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  Mabel  didn't, 
either,  after  she  came  back  to  St.  Cath 
arine's;  and  when  Sister  Irmingarde  re 
proached  her,  Mabel  said  she  was  leaning  on 
the  judgment  of  a  strong  man,  as  woman 
should  do.  But  Sister  Irmingarde.  made 
her  go  on  with  the  algebra  just  the  same. 

By-and-by  they  came  to  the  river,  and  it 
was  so  early  not  many  people  were  skating 
there.  When  George  had  fastened  on  their 
77 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

skates — he  did  it  in  the  nicest  way,  exactly 
as  if  they  were  grown  up — Kittie  looked 
more  mysterious  than  ever,  and  she  started 
off  as  fast  as  she  could  skate  towards  a  lit 
tle  inlet  where  there  was  no  one  at  all. 
George  and  Mabel  followed  her.  George 
said  he  didn't  know  whether  the  ice  was 
smooth  in  there,  but  Kittie  kept  right  on, 
and  George  did  not  say  any  more.  I  guess 
he  did  not  care  much  where  he  went.  I  sup 
pose  it  disappoints  a  man  when  he  wants  to 
marry  a  woman  and  she  won't.  Now  that 
I  am  beginning  to  study  deeply  this  ques 
tion  of  love,  many  things  are' clear  to  me. 

Kittie  kept  far  ahead,  and  all  of  a  sud 
den  Mabel  saw  that  a  little  distance  farther 
on  there  was  a  big,  black  hole  in  the  ice, 
and  Kittie  was  skating  straight  towards  it. 
Mabel  tried  to  scream,  but  she  says  the 
sound  froze  on  her  pallid  lips.  Then  George 
saw  the  hole,  too,  and  rushed  towards 
Kittie,  and  quicker  than  I  can  write  it 
Kittie  went  in  that  hole  and  down. 
78 


'KITTIE    WAS    SKATING    STRAIGHT    TOWARDS    IT 


Kittie's  Sister  Josephine 

Mabel  says  George  was  there  almost  as 
soon,  calling  to  Mabel  to  keep  back  out  of 
danger.  Usually  when  people  have  to  rescue 
others,  especially  in  stories,  they  call  to 
some  one  to  bring  a  board,  and  some  one 
does,  and  it  is  easy.  But  very  often  in  real 
life  there  isn't  any  board  or  any  one  to 
bring  it,  and  this  was,  indeed,  the  desperate 
situation  that  confronted  my  hero.  There 
was  nothing  to  do  but  plunge  in  after  Kit- 
tie,  and  he  plunged,  skates  and  all.  Then 
Mabel  heard  him  gasp  and  laugh  a  little, 
and  he  called  out:  "It's  all  right,  by  Jove! 
The  water  isn't  much  above  my  knees." 
And  even  as  he  spoke  Mabel  saw  Kittie  rise 
in  the  water  and  sort  of  hurl  herself  at  him 
and  pull  him  down  into  the  water,  head  and 
all.  When  they  came  up  they  were  both 
half  strangled,  and  Mabel  was  terribly 
frightened ;  for  she  thought  George  was  mis 
taken  about  the  depth,  and  they  would  both 
drown  before  her  eyes ;  and  then  she  would 
see  that  picture  all  her  life,  as  they  do  in 
79 


May  Iverson  — Her   Book 

stories,  and  her  hair  would  turn  gray.  She 
began  to  run  up  and  down  on  the  ice  and 
scream;  but  even  as  she  did  so  she  heard 
these  extraordinary  words  come  from  be 
tween  Kittie  James's  chattering  teeth: 

"  Now  you  are  good  and  wet!" 

George  did  not  say  a  word.  He  con 
fessed  to  Mabel  afterwards  that  he  thought 
poor  Kittie  had  lost  her  mind  through  fear. 
But  he  tried  the  ice  till  he  found  a  place  that 
would  hold  him,  and  he  got  out  and  pulled 
Kittie  out.  As  soon  as  Kittie  was  out  she 
opened  her  mouth  and  uttered  more  remark 
able  words. 

"Now,"  she  said,  "I'll  skate  till  we  get 
near  the  club-house.  Then  you  must  pick 
me  up  and  carry  me,  and  I'll  shut  my  eyes 
and  let  my  head  hang  down.  And  Mabel 
must  cry — good  and  hard.  Then  you  must 
send  for  Josephine  and  let  her  see  how  you've 
saved  the  life  of  her  precious  little  sister." 

Mabel  said  she  was  sure  that  Kittie  was 
crazy,  and  next  she  thought  George  was 
80 


Kittie's   Sister  Josephine 

crazy,  too.  For  he  bent  and  stared  hard 
into  Kittie's  eyes  for  a  minute,  and  then 
he  began  to  laugh,  and  he  laughed  till  he 
cried.  He  tried  to  speak,  but  he  couldn't 
at  first;  and  when  he  did  the  words  came 
out  between  his  shouts  of  glee. 

"Do  you  mean  to  say,  you  young  mon 
key,"  he  said,  "that  this  is  a  put-up  job?" 

Kittie  nodded  as  solemnly  as  a  fair  young 
girl  can  nod  when  her  clothes  are  dripping 
and  her  nose  is  blue  with  cold.  When  she 
did  that,  George  roared  again;  then,  as  if 
he  had  remembered  something,  he  caught 
her  hands  and  began  to  skate  very  fast 
towards  the  club-house.  He  was  a  thought 
ful  young  man,  you  see,  and  he  wanted  her 
to  get  warm.  Perhaps  he  wanted  to  get 
warm,  too.  Anyhow,  they  started  off,  and 
as  they  went,  Kittie  opened  still  further 
the  closed  flower  of  her  girlish  heart.  I 
heard  that  expression  once,  and  I've  al 
ways  wanted  to  get  it  into  my  book.  I 
think  this  is  a  good  place. 
81 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

She  told  George  she  knew  the  hole  in  the 
ice,  and  that  it  wasn't  deep;  and  she  said 
she  had  done  it  all  to  make  Josephine  ad 
mire  him  and  marry  him. 

"  She  will,  too,"  she  said.  "  Her  dear  lit 
tle  sister — the  only  one  she's  got."  And 
Kittie  went  on  to  say  what  a  terrible  thing 
it  would  have  been  if  she  had  died  in  the 
promise  of  her  young  life,  till  Mabel  said  she 
almost  felt  sure  herself  that  George  had 
saved  her.  But  George  hesitated.  He 
said  it  wasn't  "a  square  deal,"  whatever 
that  means,  but  Kittie  said  no  one  need  tell 
any  lies.  She  had  gone  into  the  hole,  and 
George  had  pulled  her  out.  She  thought 
they  needn't  explain  how  deep  it  was,  and 
George  admitted,  thoughtfully,  that  "no 
truly  loving  family  should  hunger  for  fig 
ures  at  such  a  moment."  Finally  he  said, 
"By  Jove!  I'll  do  it.  All's  fair  in  love 
and  war."  Then  he  asked  Mabel  if  she 
thought  she  could  "lend  intelligent  support 
to  the  star  performers,"  and  she  said  she 
82 


Kittie's   Sister  Josephine 

could.  So  George  picked  Kittle  up  in  his 
arms,  and  Mabel  cried — she  was  so  excited 
it  was  easy,  and  she  wanted  to  do  it  all  the 
time — and  the  sad  little  procession  "home 
ward  wended  its  weary  way,"  as  the  poet 
says. 

Mabel  told  me  Kittie  did  her  part  like  a 
real  actress.  She  shut  her  eyes  and  her 
head  hung  over  George's  arm,  and  her  long, 
wet  braid  dripped  as  it  trailed  behind  them. 
George  laughed  to  himself  every  few  min 
utes  till  they  got  near  the  club-house.  Then 
he  looked  very  sober,  and  Mabel  Blossom 
knew  her  cue  had  come  the  way  it  does  to 
actresses,  and  she  let  out  a  wail  that  al 
most  made  Kittie  sit  up.  It  was  'most  too 
much  of  a  one,  and  Mr.  Morgan  advised 
her  to  "tone  it  down  a  little,"  because,  he 
said,  if  she  didn't  they'd  probably  have 
Kittie  buried  before  she  could  explain.  But 
of  course  Mabel  had  not  been  prepared,  and 
had  not  had  any  practice.  She  muffled  her 
sobs  after  that,  and  they  sounded  lots  bet- 
83 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

ter.  People  began  to  rush  from  the  club 
house,  and  get  blankets  and  whiskey,  and 
telephone  for  doctors  and  for  Kittie's  fam 
ily,  and  things  got  so  exciting  that  nobody 
paid  any  attention  to  Mabel.  All  she  had 
to  do  was  to  mop  her  eyes  occasionally  and 
keep  a  sharp  lookout  for  Josephine;  for, 
of  course,  being  an  ardent  student  of  life, 
like  Maudie  and  me,  she  did  not  want  to 
miss  what  came  next. 

Pretty  soon  a  horse  galloped  up,  foam 
ing  at  the  mouth,  and  he  was  pulled 
back  on  his  haunches,  and  Josephine  and 
Mr.  James  jumped  out  of  the  buggy  and 
rushed  in,  and  there  was  more  excitement. 
When  George  saw  them  coming  he  turned 
pale,  Mabel  said,  and  hurried  off  to  change 
his  clothes.  One  woman  looked  after  him 
and  said,  "As  modest  as  he  is  brave,"  and 
cried  over  it.  When  Josephine  and  Mr. 
James  came  in  there  was.  more  excitement 
and  Kittie  opened  one  eye  and  shut  it  again, 
right  off,  and  the  doctor  said  she  was  all 


Kittie's   Sister  Josephine 

right,  except  for  the  shock,  and  her  father 
and  Josephine  cried,  so  Mabel  didn't  have 
to  any  more.  She  was  glad,  too,  I  can  tell 
you. 

They  put  Kittie  to  bed  in  a  room  at  the 
club,  for  the  doctor  said  she  was  such  a 
high-strung  child  it  would  be  wise  to  keep 
her  perfectly  quiet  for  a  few  hours  and 
take  precautions  against  pneumonia.  Then 
Josephine  went  around  asking  for  Mr.  Mor 
gan. 

By-and-by  he  carne  down  in  dry  clothes, 
but  looking  dreadfully  uncomfortable. 
Mabel  said  she  could  imagine  how  he  felt. 
Josephine  was  standing  by  the  open  fire 
when  he  entered  the  room,  and  no  one  else 
was  there  but  Mabel.  Josephine  went  right 
to  him  and  put  her  arms  around  his  neck. 

"Dearest,  dearest!"  she  said.  "How 
can  I  ever  thank  you?"  Her  voice  was 
very  low,  but  Mabel  heard  it.  George  said 
right  off,  "There  is  a  way."  That  shows 
how  quick  and  clever  he  is,  for  some  men 
85 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

might  not  think  of  it.  Then  Mabel  Blos 
som  left  the  room  with  slow,  reluctant  feet, 
and  went  up-stairs  to  Kittie. 

That's  why  Mabel  has  just  gone  to  Kittie's 
home  for  a  few  days.  She  and  Kittie  are 
to  be  flower-maids  at  Josephine's  wedding. 
I  hope  it  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  explain 
to  my  intelligent  readers  that  her  husband 
will  be  George  Morgan.  Kittie  says  he 
confessed  the  whole  thing  to  Josephine,  and 
she  forgave  him,  and  said  she  would  marry 
him  anyhow,  but  she  explained  that  she 
only  did  it  on  Kittie's  account.  She  said 
she  did  not  know  to  what  lengths  the  child 
might  go  next. 

So  my  young  friends  have  gone  to  mingle 
in  scenes  of  worldly  gayety,  and  I  sit  here 
in  the  twilight  looking  at  the  evening  star 
and  writing  about  love.  How  true  it  is 
that  the  pen  is  mightier  than  the  sword! 
Gayety  is  well  in  its  place,  but  the  soul  of 
the  artist  finds  its  happiness  in  work  and 
solitude.  I  hope  Josephine  will  realize, 
86 


Kittie's   Sister  Josephine 

though,  why  I  cannot  describe  her  wedding. 
Of  course,  no  artist  of  delicate  sensibilities 
could  describe  a  wedding  when  she  hadn't 
been  asked  to  it. 

Poor  Josephine!  It  seems  very,  very 
sad  to  me  that  she  is  marrying  thus  late  in 
life,  and  only  on  Kittie's  account.  Why, 
oh,  why,  could  she  not  have  wed  when  she 
was  young  and  love  was  in  her  heart! 


IV 

Love,   the    Destroyer 

(HE  experience  I  am  going  to 
tell  now  happened  to  Mabel 
Blossom  and  me.  It  is  very, 
very  sad,  but  very  interest 
ing  and  instructive,  and  I 
hope  frivolous  readers  will  not  turn  from  it 
because  it  has  not  a  happy  ending.  It  has 
wrecked  our  lives,  Mabel's  and  mine;  and, 
as  that  is  the  saddest  thing  of  all,  I  will 
mention  it  at  once,  so  my  readers  can  get 
over  it.  Mabel  and  I  know  we  can  never 
get  over  it.  We  have  come  into  our  heri 
tage  of  sorrow,  and  we  realize  that  never, 
never  again  can  we  laugh  or  share  the  care 
less  pastimes  of  our  young  school-mates  at 
$t.  Catharine's,  or  enjoy  any  more  of  Maudie 
88 


Love,  the   Destroyer 

Joyce's  Welsh  rabbits.  But  even  though 
we  are  only  fourteen,  we  know  that  happi 
ness  is  not  everything.  There  is  develop 
ment  of  soul,  and  there  is  fortitude  under 
affliction,  and  there  are  heroic  endurance 
and  high  nobility  and  strength  of  character ; 
and  somebody  who  knows  life  even  better 
than  we  do  said  that  no  soul  can  truly  be 
strong  until  it  has  been  hammered  good 
and  hard  by  the  blows  of  fate.  So,  when 
I  pointed  out  to  Mabel  how  we  had  gained 
all  these  things,  she  admitted  at  once  that 
they  were  better  than  mere  thoughtless, 
girlish  happiness,  and  that,  as  the  poet 
says,  we  had  climbed  over  our  dead  selves 
to  higher  things.  Then  we  began  to  feel 
better  right  away;  but  we  are  not  cheerful 
yet,  and  we  are  not  going  to  'be.  We  are 
just  strong,  and  calm,  and  brave.  That  is 
more  than  most  girls  would  be  under  the 
circumstances,  I  can  tell  you.  I  will  now 
begin  this  at  the  place  where  it  begins. 
For  a  long  time  I  had  been  feeling  un- 
89 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

happy.  Sister  Irmingarde  thought  it  was 
indigestion  again — she  always  does;  and 
the  girls  thought  it  was  a  symptom  that  I 
was  going  to  write  another  chapter.  So 
Sister  Irmingarde  sent  me  to  the  infirmary 
for  some  medicine,  and  all  the  girls  let  me 
alone  because  they  suspected  it  was  a  plot, 
and  they  know  I  don't  like  to  be  interrupted 
when  I  am  thinking  of  my  art.  But  this 
time  it  was  neither  a  plot  nor  indigestion ; 
and  the  strange  part  of  it  all  was  that  I 
did  not  know  myself  what  was  the  matter 
with  me.  I  didn't  know  whether  it  was 
going  to  turn  out  to  be  a  story,  or  only  ty 
phoid  fever  or  something.  That  was  the 
way  I  felt  when  I  went  home  for  Christmas. 
My  presents  cheered  me  a  little.  They 
were  very  nice,  and  a  lot  of  them  were  quite 
grown-up  things.  For,  as  I  have  long 
pointed  out  to  papa  and  mamma,  I  am 
standing  with  reluctant  feet  at  the  place 
where  they  cannot  treat  me  as  a  child  any 
longer.  But  even  the  presents  did  not 
90 


Love,  the   Destroyer 

help  much,  and  I  kept  longing  to  go  back 
to  school.  This  was  strange,  indeed,  for 
though  I  strive  to  give  my  mind  to  stu 
dious  pursuits  when  I  am  at  St.  Catharine's, 
I  am  always  able  to  remember  that  the 
brain  must  not  be  constantly  overtaxed, 
and  that  it  is  a  comfort  to  forget  all  about 
the  old  books  sometimes. 

Well,  one  day  Grace — (she  is  Mrs.  George 
Verbeck  and  the  dearest  sister  in  the 
whole  world !) — one  day  I  was  at  her  house, 
and  she  was  at  the  piano  singing  for  Mrs. 
Russell.  Mrs.  Russell  was  Grace's  chum 
at  St.  Catharine's,  and  they  are  just  as 
fond  of  each  other  now  as  they  were  in 
those  olden  times  when  they  were  girls. 
I  remind  Maudie  Joyce  of  that  sometimes, 
when  she  seems  to  be  afraid  our  friendship 
will  not  last  till  we  die.  Grace  and  Mrs. 
Russell  have  been  friends  for  twelve  whole 
years,  and  now  Mrs.  Russell's  baby,  Jack 
Russell,  plays  all  day  long  with  Grace's 
little  boy,  Georgie.  Georgie  is  my  nephew. 
91 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

He  is  'most  four,  and  that  is  another  rea 
son,  I  suppose,  why  my  mind  is  so  mature. 
Character  develops  under  responsibility, 
and  to  be  an  aunt  at  ten  is  a  great  deal  of 
responsibility. 

Maudie  and  I  used  to  plan  how  we  would 
live  side  by  side,  the  way  Grace  and  Mrs. 
Russell  do,  and  our  babies  would  play  to 
gether,  too.  I  was  going  to  have  six  boys, 
and  Maudie  six  girls,  so  they  could  all 
marry  each  other  when  they  grew  up.  But 
those  plans  were  in  the  days  before  my  life 
was  blighted.  All  is  now  changed,  and 
poor  Maudie's  children  will  have  to  get 
along  the  best  they  can  without  playmates. 
Mabel  Blossom  and  I  are  going  to  devote 
our  few  remaining  years  after  we  leave  school 
to  work  among  the  poor.  I  will  now  return 
to  Grace  at  the  piano,  and  you  need  not  think 
I  had  forgotten  her,  either.  The  true  liter 
ary  artist  throws  out  many  lines  of  thought 
in  different  directions,  and  then  gathers 
them  in  at  the  end.  Such  is  my  method. 
92 


Love,  the   Destroyer 

Grace  and  Mrs.  Russell  had  been  talking 
about  what  they  called  a  "cycle"  of  songs, 
and  Grace  said  she  would  sing  some  of 
them  for  Mrs.  Russell,  and  she  did.  I  was 
sitting  by  the  window,  looking  out  on  the 
whirling  eddies  of  feathery  flakes  that  were 
coming  down  just  as  hard  as  they  could,  and 
I  was  wondering  how  I  could  best  occupy 
the  several  years  that  lie  before  me,  for,  of 
course,  I  realize  that  I  shall  not  live  long. 
You  know  how  it  was  with  Keats,  and 
Shelley,  and  Charlotte  Bronte.  The  true 
artist  always  gives  his  beautiful  message  to 
the  world  and  then  fades  away,  young.  I 
was  thinking  how  sad  it  was,  and  remem 
bering  how  easily  I  take  cold,  and  wonder 
ing  if  it  would  be  consumption,  when  all  of 
a  sudden  some  words  Grace  was  singing 
caught  my  attention.  They  were  German, 
but  papa  is  very  particular  about  having 
me  study  the  modern  languages,  so  I  under 
stood  them.  They  were  about  some  beau 
tiful  Sister  in  a  convent,  and  a  little  child 
93 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

was  asked  which  was  the  most  beautiful 
of  all  the  Sisters,  and  he  cried  "  Tis  Irmin- 
garde."  The  music  is  lovely  just  as  he 
says  this.  You  feel  your  heart  turn  right 
straight  over  as  you  listen.  I  jumped  up, 
and  asked  Grace  what  the  song  was,  and 
she  looked  flustered,  and  began  to  talk 
about  something  else  very  fast,  and  later 
I  heard  her  say  to  Mrs.  Russell,  in  a  low 
voice,  that  she  had  forgotten  that  child 
was  'round.  Then  I  knew  she  meant  me, 
and  I  rose  and  swept  haughtily  out  of  the 
room.  But  all  the  same,  I  was  interested, 
and  I  remembered  the  sweet,  sad  strain  of 
the  music,  and  I  began  to  think  of  our  own 
Sister  Irmingarde,  at  St.  Catharine's,  and 
a  great  revelation  came  to  me,  just  as  if 
you  turned  on  an  electric  light  in  a  dark 
room.  I  knew  what  was  the  matter  with 
me.  I  knew  I  loved  Sister  Irmingarde,  and 
that  the  reason  I  wanted  to  go  back  to 
school  was  because  I  missed  her. 

It  surprised  me  so,   and  it  stirred  my 
94 


Love,   the   Destroyer 

whole  nature  so  profundly,  that  I  sat  right 
down  on  the  floor  in  the  hall  to  think  it 
over.  Grace  was  singing  inside,  and  the 
music  came  to  me  plainly,  but  I  couldn't 
hear  any  more  words.  Everything  I  thought 
of  made  it  clearer  and  more  convincing.  I 
could  remember  the  littlest  things  about 
our  Sister  Irmingarde — I  mean  even  the 
things  that  were  not  important.  I  could 
see  just  how  her  eyes  looked — she  has  blue 
ones,  with  the  dearest  twinkle  in  them. 
And  she  laughs  a  great  deal,  though  you 
can  see  that  she  tries  not  to,  for  she  thinks 
a  Sister  mustn't.  Then  she's  very  serious 
and  dignified  for  quite  a  while  afterwards. 
Often  she  laughs  at  something  we  girls 
think  is  not  funny  at  all.  We  don't  al 
ways  understand  quite  what  she  is  laugh 
ing  at.  Then,  sometimes,  when  we  are 
very  much  amused  she  isn't  —  but  this  I 
have  noticed  in  all  too  many  grown-up 
people.  My  father  and  mother  frequently 
laugh  at  things  I  know  are  serious  and 
95 


May   Iverson — Her   Book 

i 

vital,  and  even  Grace  does  it,  too,  some 
times. 

Well,  I  just  sat  there  and  let  memory 
paint  her  beautiful  pictures  on  the  wall, 
as  the  poet  says,  and  they  all  had  Sister 
Irmingarde  in  them.  I  recalled  the  time, 
last  month,  when  she  kept  me  after  the 
others,  to  tell  me  she  was  afraid  my  liter 
ary  ambitions  were  distracting  my  mind 
from  other  studies,  and  she  talked  to  me 
beautifully  about  how  I  needed  the  other 
things,  too.  It  impressed  me  so  much  that 
I  went  right  straight  off  and  studied  all  my 
lessons,  and  when  Maudie  Joyce  and  Mabel 
Blossom  came  and  rapped  at  my  door,  I 
turned  my  ear  coldly  from  their  siren  songs. 
That  means  I  didn't  open  the  door.  They 
were  mad,  too,  and  didn't  give  me  any  of 
the  cake  Mabel's  aunt  had  sent  her,  and 
they  ate  it  all  and  it  made  them  sick.  But 
that  is  not  a  part  of  this  chapter,  so  I  will 
pass  hurriedly  on  without  saying  any  of 
the  things  I  could  say  right  in  here,  if  I 
96 


Love,  the   Destroyer 

wished.  Then  there  was  the  time  Sister 
Irmingarde  let  me  walk  to  the  gate  with 
her.  I  hadn't  realized  then  what  it  was  to 
me,  but  I  did  now,  and  I  got  right  up  that 
minute  and  wrote  it  in  my  diary.  And  I 
added  these  words: 

December  2?th.  Love  came  into  my  life 
this  day. 

For  you  see,  I  never  had  really  cared  for 
any  one  before  in  that  strange,  uplifting 
way.  The  other  girls  had,  and  talked  about 
it,  and  it  was  rather  annoying,  sometimes, 
to  Maudie  and  Mabel  and  me  because  it 
always  made  them  want  to  be  so  much 
better  and  nobler  that  they  wouldn't  go 
into  any  of  our  school  larks.  Often  it  lasted 
for  months,  and  they  missed  a  lot.  That 
is,  I  used  to  think  they  missed  things,  but 
now  I  know  better.  Love  is,  indeed,  the 
great  instructor.  Now  I  could  understand 
Mabel  Muriel  Murphy  if  she  told  me  again 
that  she  once  cried  all  night  because  she 
must  graduate  in  four  years  and  leave  the 
97 


May   Iverson — Her   Book 

buildings  that  sheltered  Sister  Edna.  For 
give  me,  Mabel  Muriel,  for  laughing  at  you 
on  that  sad  occasion.  Perhaps  I  should  not 
put  that  in  here,  but  papa  says  the  time 
to  confess  a  mistake  is  when  you  know  you 
have  made  it. 

I  will  now  explain  very  carefully,  indeed, 
the  difference  between  the  love  I  felt  for 
Sister  Irmingarde  and  what  I  felt  for  Mau- 
die  Joyce  and  Mabel  Blossom ;  and  I  am  sure 
I  hope  it  will  not  hurt  their  feelings  if  Sister 
Irmingarde  reads  this  aloud  to  the  class. 

In  the  first  place,  Mabel  and  Maudie  are 
my  own  age,  and  I  will  state  at  once  that 
they  are  my  very  best  friends  at  St.  Cath 
arine's.  If  they  gave  me  a  rose  I  would 
thank  them  politely,  and  keep  it  in  a  little 
glass  of  water  on  my  desk  till  it  faded,  and 
then  I  would  throw  it  away.  But  if  Sister 
Irmingarde  gave  me  one,  I'd  be  so  excited 
I  might  forget  to  thank  her,  and  I'd  wear 
it  on  my  breast  with  two  pins  stuck  through 
it  so  it  would  not  fall  out  and  get  lost.  And 
98 


Love,  the   Destroyer 

I'd  think  of  it  every  minute,  and  know  it 
was  there.  Then,  when  it  faded,  I  would 
put  it  in  a  favorite  book  and  keep  it  al 
ways,  and  I'm  'most  sure  that  I  would 
leave  instructions  for  my  family  to  place 
it  above  my  heart  as  I  lay  dead.  Of 
course,  Sister  Irmingarde  never  gave  me 
a  rose,  and  now  I  know  all  too  well  she 
never  will.  But  that  is  the  way  I  felt  in 
the  dear,  dead  days  that  are  no  more. 

I  could  go  right  on  and  give  many  more 
illustrations  which  would  show  exactly  the 
way  I  felt,  but  I  think  one  is  enough.  It  is 
hard  to  show  the  inside  of  one's  heart  to 
the  world  at  any  time,  but  as  a  student  of 
life,  I  have  learned  that  a  spurned  heart  is 
harder  to  show  than  any  other  kind.  And 
mine  has  been  spurned.  So  has  Mabel 
Blossom's.  Of  course,  Sister  Irmingarde 
did  it  as  kindly  as  she  could,  but  you  can 
imagine  how  Mabel  and  I  felt  while  she 
was  doing  it.  I  will  now  go  back  to  where 
I  left  myself  sitting  in  the  hall,  listening  to 
99 


May   Iverson — Her   Book 

Grace's   music    and    dreaming,    dreaming, 
dreaming. 

That  night  I  dreamed  of  Sister  Irmingarde, 
and  every  night  after  that  while  I  was 
home.  And  I  thought  of  her  all  day  long. 
Once  I  began  a  letter  to  her,  and  it  was  a 
good  thing  I  did,  for  I  learned  right  there 
the  strange  truth  that  comes  to  the  most 
gifted  artist,  which  is  that  no  matter  how 
many  words  you  know,  you  don't  know 
enough  to  write  a  love-letter  that  really 
says  what  you  mean.  I  used  most  all  I 
knew,  and  a  good  many  others  that  I  was 
not  quite  sure  of,  and  I  sat  up  most  of  one 
night,  but  when  I  got  through  the  letter 
was  not  right.  It  sounded  just  like  the  let 
ters  the  Brownings  wrote,  and  Byron,  and 
Burns,  and  Maudie  Joyce,  and  I  wanted 
something  different  for  Sister  Irmingarde, 
so  I  didn't  send  it.  It  was  a  great  disap 
pointment,  but  who  am  I  that  I  should  not 
suffer  like  my  fellow-creatures,  as  another 
author  so  beautifully  asks! 
100 


Love,  the   Destroyer 

I  guess  mamma  and  papa  and  Grace  were 
surprised  by  the  girlish  cheerfulness  I  showed 
the  morning  I  went  back  to  school.  Usually 
it  is  dreadful  to  leave  them,  and  I  always 
beg  to  stay  a  day  or  two  longer.  And  when 
I  was  younger,  and  my  moral  sense  was 
undeveloped,  I  used  to  pretend  to  have  a 
sore  throat  and  headaches  so  they  would 
keep  me  home.  But  this  time  I  didn't  cry 
a  bit  even  when  I  said  good-bye  to  mamma 
and  Grace's  little  boy.  Poor  Georgie  look 
ed  surprised,  too,  and  hurt,  and  the  corners 
of  his  mouth  went  away  down.  I  felt 
wicked,  indeed,  as  I  remembered  how  real 
the  sorrows  of  childhood  are,  and  how  I 
must  have  darkened  his  baby  life.  But 
when  I  looked  back  he  was  making  snow 
balls,  so  perhaps  he  got  over  it.  He  is  only 
four. 

All  the  way  to  St.  Catharine's  I  thought 
of  Sister  Irmingarde,  and  planned  things 
to  say  to  her — brilliant  things  that  would 
make  her  look  at  me  in  surprise.  And  I 

8  101 


May  Iverson— Her   Book 

remembered  that  she  liked  quiet  girls,  so  I 
decided  that  my  mien  should  be  dignified 
and  reserved  to  everybody  else,  but  to  her 
I  would  show  little  tendernesses  that  no  one 
would  expect  from  so  calm  and  cold  a  nat 
ure.  I  was  not  sure  she  would  let  me  be 
tender;  they  never  will,  somehow.  But  I 
made  up  my  mind  I'd  try. 

When  I  got  off  the  train  at  St.  Catharine's 
station,  the  very  first  person  I  saw  was 
Mabel  Blossom.  For  a  minute  I  forgot  to 
be  dignified  and  stately,  but  pretty  soon  I 
noticed  how  strangely  silent  Mabel  was, 
and  ever  and  anon  she  sighed.  While  we 
were  driving  up  to  the  academy  I  asked 
her  what  was  the  matter,  and  she  shook 
her  head,  and  sighed  again,  and  said  it  was 
a  secret  and  she  couldn't  tell  even  me, 
though  she  admitted  it  would  be  a  comfort 
to  lean  on  the  heart  of  a  friend.  She  is  al 
ways  using  that  expression.  I  think  she 
heard  it  somewhere. 

I  wouldn't  be  much  of  a  student  of  life 

IO2 


Love,  the   Destroyer 

if  I  could  not  see  through  Mabel  Blossom, 
so  I  just  sighed  myself,  and  said  every 
heart  had  its  sorrows  and  God  knows  I  had 
mine ;  and  then,  with  a  great  effort,  I  began 
to  talk  about  something  else,  the  way  the 
leading  lady  does  on  the  stage.  Mabel 
stopped  sighing  and  looked  at  me,  and 
thought  a  while,  and  pretty  soon  she  said 
she  would  tell  me  hers  if  I  told  her  mine. 
So  I  said  all  right,  and  asked  her  to  tell 
first,  and  she  leaned  back  and  closed  her 
eyes,  and  sighed  again,  and  said,  "I  love." 
My,  but  I  was  excited,  for  you  can  see 
how  thrilling  it  must  have  been.  I  cried 
out,  "So  do  I!  Who,  who,  who?"  And 
Mabel  kept  her  eyes  shut  and  said,  very 
faintly,  "Sister  Irmingarde,"  and  drew  the 
word  out  so  it  lasted  a  long  time.  It  was 
well,  indeed,  she  had  her  eyes  closed,  for 
had  she  but  turned  them  on  me  she  would 
have  been  surprised.  I  felt  my  face  grow 
stiff,  and  I  got  away  from  her  as  far  as  I 
could  into  my  corner  of  the  carriage,  and  I 
103 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

didn't  say  a  word.  I  don't  think  I  was 
ever  so  much  annoyed.  Of  course,  a  gen 
eral's  daughter  must  be  strictly  honorable ; 
but  wouldn't  anybody  feel  angry  to  have 
her  very  best  friend  pick  out  her  very  own 
Sister  like  that? 

Finally  Mabel  opened  her  eyes  and  asked 
why  I  didn't  say  something,  and  I  said, 
coldly,  that  I  thought  she  might  have 
chosen  some  one  else.  Mabel  was  too  much 
absorbed  in  her,  own  selfish  emotions  to 
observe  how  disapproving  my  manner  was, 
and  she  went  on  to  explain  that  it  all  hap 
pened  at  Christmas,  and  that  she  did  not 
know  it  herself  till  she  got  home  and  saw 
how  she  missed  Sister  Irmingarde. 

Then  I  saw  that  it  was  fate,  and  that  we 
were  indeed  poor  human  souls,  helpless  in 
the  relentless  grasp  of  destiny.  So  I  told 
Mabel  my  secret,  and  she  was  mad,  too, 
at  first,  but  when  we  talked  it  over  we  saw 
that  it  was  going  to  be  fun.  Of  course,  I 
don't  mean  that  exactly,  but  we  could  lean 
104 


Love,  the   Destroyer 

on  each  other's  hearts,  and  talk  to  each 
other  about  Sister  Irmingarde.  And  each 
of  us  promised  the  other  then  and  there  that 
she  would  tell  her  all  that  happened  and 
everything  Sister  Irmingarde  said  and  did. 
We  shook  hands  on  it. 

When  we  went  into  the  academy  through 
the  big  main  entrance,  the  first  person  we 
saw  was  Sister  Edna,  and  the  second  was 
Sister  Irmingarde.  Sister  Irmingarde  was 
saying  good-bye  to  some  worldly  friend  who 
was  with  her,  so  she  merely  bowed  and 
smiled  at  us  as  we  went  by.  My  heart  was 
thumping  just  as  hard,  and  Mabel's  was, 
too.  She  said  so.  But  Sister  Irmingarde 
looked  perfectly  calm,  and  the  delicate  pink 
flush  in  her  cheeks  did  not  deepen,  as  real 
writers  say.  (She  hasn't  any  pink  flush.) 
Little  did  she  know  as  we  walked  past  that 
our  hearts  were  wholly  hers.  Later  we 
went  to  her  class-room,  but  she  was  very 
busy,  and  there  were  lots  of  girls  around, 
so  nothing  happened.  She  kissed  Mabel's 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

cheek  and  mine,  and  asked  us  a  few  ques 
tions,  and  we  answered  in  well-chosen  words, 
and  our  manners  were  so  dignified  and 
elegant  that  she  seemed  a  little  worried. 
Finally  she  said,  "  What  is  the  matter  with 
you  two  girls  ?  Have  you  been  quarrelling  ?' 
And  I  said,  "  No,  Sister.  On  the  contrary, 
our  hearts  are  now  knit  together  by  a  tie 
no  bond  can  break,  and  you  are  it." 

She  looked  at  us  in  a  kind  of  puzzled  way, 
and  we  withdrew  and  left  those  enigmatic 
words  ringing  in  her  ears.  When  we  got 
outside  the  door,  Mabel  simply  hugged  me. 
She  said  she  thought  I  had  expressed  the 
most  delicate  sentiment  in  the  most  beau 
tiful  way.  I  reminded  her  that  this  is  in 
deed  the  province  of  the  artist,  and  that  she 
must  always  let  me  do  the  talking;  so  she 
said  she  would.  That  evening  Mabel  and 
I  talked  about  Sister  Irmingarde  till  "the 
Great  Silence"  fell.  You  know  what  the 
Great  Silence  is  in  a  convent,  I  suppose. 
It  begins  at  eight  at  night  and  lasts  till  after 
106 


Love,  the  Destroyer 

mass  the  next  morning,  and  no  Sister  is 
supposed  to  speak  between  those  times.  I 
like  it,  and  I  always  have.  I  like  to  feel 
that  hundreds  of  human  beings  are  within 
those  four  walls  and  that  every  one  is  si 
lent  and  speechless.  That  night,  before  I 
went  to  sleep,  I  lay  thinking  of  Sister  Ir- 
mingarde,  and  I  made  up  my  mind  to  be 
exactly  like  her  when  I  grew  up.  Then  I 
fell  asleep,  and  dreamed  that  some  doctor 
was  trying  to  put  a  twinkle  into  my  eyes, 
and  that  Sister  Irmingarde  and  Georgie 
were  snow-balling  each  other  at  the  station. 
I  will  now  pass  over  several  months  of 
time,  though  there  are  indeed  many  things 
I  could  tell  you.  But  I  cannot  pass  quiet 
ly  over  the  conduct  of  Mabel  Blossom.  In 
stead  of  giving  me  the  privileges  a  friend, 
an  artist,  and  a  student  of  life  should  have, 
Mabel  Blossom  tagged  after  me  everywhere 
because  she  was  afraid  I  would  see  more  of 
Sister  than  she  did.  And  on  those  all  too 
infrequent  occasions  when  my  literary 
107 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

work  drew  us  together — Sister  Irmingarde 
and  myself,  I  mean — and  we  were  engaged 
in  conversation  suggested  by  our  mutual 
interest  in  life  and  literature,  Mabel  Blos 
som  would  stay  right  there,  and  interrupt 
and  chat  to  Sister  Irmingarde  in  her  friv 
olous,  girlish  way.  Poor  Mabel!  She  is 
so  crude,  so  immature !  Still,  as  I  strive  to 
be  frank  and  to  write  of  life  exactly  as  it 
is,  I  must  add  here  that  Sister  Irmingarde 
was  as  nice  to  her  as  she  was  to  me,  and 
seemed  to  like  her  as  much.  We  had  never 
said  anything  more  to  her  about  what  we 
felt.  We  thought  we  would  let  our  actions 
speak,  not  words.  But  finally  the  climax 
came,  and  now  I  am  coming  to  the  crisis  in 
this  chapter. 

One  morning  Mabel  Blossom  came  into 
the  class-room  simply  beaming.  She  has 
a  way  of  showing  all  her  teeth  when  she 
smiles — both  rows.  I  used  to  like  it,  but 
now  I  don't,  so  much.  She  smiled  all 
morning,  and  her  eyes  shone,  and  every 
1 08 


Love,  the   Destroyer 

now  and  then  she  looked  at  me  in  a  very 
mysterious  way,  and  made  signs  that  she 
had  something  to  tell  me.  As  soon  as  we 
got  out  she  did  tell  me,  too,  and  those  were 
terrible  moments  for  me,  as  I  took  my  first 
long  draught  out  of  the  bitter  cup  of  jeal 
ousy.  Mabel  said  Sister  Irmingarde  had 
stopped  her  as  she  was  passing  through  the 
hall,  and  told  her  she  was  much  pleased 
and  encouraged  by  the  improvement  in 
Mabel's  manner  and  her  lessons  since  the 
holidays,  and  that  she  had  always  had 
faith  in  Mabel,  and  believed  she  had  ma 
terial  in  her  for  a  fine,  noble  woman.  And 
she  said  the  other  Sisters  had  noticed 
Mabel's  improvement,  too,  and  she  wanted 
to  encourage  Mabel  by  telling  her  that  her 
efforts  were  appreciated.  Well,  I  will  not 
make  this  sad  story  any  sadder  than  it  is 
by  describing  how  I  felt  as  my  young  friend 
thus  told  me  of  her  joy.  I  congratulated 
her,  but  my  throat  felt  very  queer  and  my 
voice  sounded  as  if  it  belonged  to  some  one 
109 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

else.  Then  Mabel  went  off  humming  to 
herself,  and  I  staggered  to  my  room  and  hid 
my  anguish  from  the  world. 

That  afternoon  we  had  a  lecture,  and 
Mabel  Blossom  took  a  seat  in  the  front  row, 
where  Sister  Irmingarde  could  see  her  all 
the  time.  Sister  Irmingarde  was  there  with 
her  class.  And  Mabel  kept  her  head  thrown 
back  and  her  eyes  a  little  lifted,  and  tried 
to  look  like  the  picture  of  Saint  Cecilia,  in 
Sister  Irmingarde's  class-room.  The  other 
girls  were  deeply  impressed  by  it,  but  I  was 
not.  I  did  not  think  she  looked  a  bit  like 
Saint  Cecilia.  I  thought  she  looked  as  if 
she  saw  a  spot  on  the  wall.  But  my  in 
sight  is,  of  course,  greater  than  that  of  the 
thoughtless  mass. 

That  night  I  sought  Mabel  Blossom,  and 
I  knew  just  where  to  find  her.  It  was  Sister 
Irmingarde's  evening  to  preside  over  the 
study  hall,  and  I  knew  Mabel  would  be  in 
the  very  front  row,  studying  from  all  her 
books  at  once,  and  trying  to  look  like  Saint 
no 


Love,  the   Destroyer 

Cecilia.  It  was  even  so.  It  is  my  artistic 
nature  that  gives  me  this  remarkable  knowl 
edge  of  what  is  going  to  happen.  I  opened 
the  door  and  beckoned  to  Mabel,  and  she 
came  out  into  the  hall.  Then  I  told  her, 
right  off,  that  I  could  not  live  if  things 
went  on  like  this.  Mabel  blinked,  and  ask 
ed  what  I  wanted  to  do.  She  is  sometimes 
strangely  dull  in  following  one's  meaning. 
I  said  we  must  wait  till  Sister  Irmingarde 
was  alone  in  the  study  hall,  and  then  we 
would  go  in  together  and  ask  her  to  choose 
between  us. 

Mabel  kind  of  gasped,  and  looked  scared. 
She  is  not  very  brave.  Her  people  are  not 
in  the  army.  She  said  she  thought  Sister 
Irmingarde  had  already  chosen  her. 

"Well,"  I  said,  "if  she  has,  she's  got  to 
tell  me  so.  Then  I  will  fade  out  of  your 
lives  for  ever  and  ever.  But  it  is  also  pos 
sible  that  she  is  good  and  kind  to  you  be 
cause  she  is  indifferent  to  you,  and  that  she 
is  concealing  from  us  the  gnawing  worm  of  a 
in 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

hidden  love  for  me.  You  know  how  peo 
ple  do  that  in  books." 

Then  Mabel  looked  worried,  and  cried  in 
the  hall,  and  said  she  had  been  so  happy, 
and  I  had  spoiled  everything;  and  I  cried, 
too,  because  I  felt  so  nervous.  But  I  re 
mained  firm. 

We  hung  around  till  all  the  girls  had  gone, 
and  then  we  went  into  the  study  hall,  hand- 
in-hand.  Sister  Irmingarde  stood  at  her 
desk  looking  over  some  papers.  Suddenly 
she  looked  up,  and  saw  standing  before  her 
two  fair  young  girls  with  tear-stained  eyes 
and  very  red  noses.  They  were  Mabel 
and  I.  For  one  tragic  moment  we  three 
gazed  at  each  other.  Then  Mabel  lifted 
her  chin  and  began  to  look  like  Saint  Ce 
cilia,  and  I  broke  the  silence  with  a  few 
simple  but  eloquent  words. 

"  Sister,"  I  said,  in  low  and  thrilling  tones, 
"  Mabel  and  I  have  come  to  tell  you  we  can 
endure  our  sufferings  no  longer." 

Mabel  began  to  cry  again,  right  off.    She 

112 


Love,  the   Destroyer 

is  a  nervous  child.  My  voice  trembled, 
but  I  fixed  my  sad  eyes  on  Sister  and  stood 
before  her,  broken  but  brave.  Her  eye 
brows  drew  together  a  little,  the  way  they 
always  did  when  she  was  puzzled. 

"Children,"  she  asked,  "what  do  you 
mean?  Are  you  in  trouble?" 

I  laughed  a  bitter  little  laugh. 

"We  are,"  I  said,  firmly.  "We  can't 
eat  much,  or  sleep  much,  or  fix  our  minds 
on  our  studies,  and  the  foolish  chatter  of  our 
frivolous  friends  falls  painfully  on  our  ears. 
All  we  can  do  is  to  sit  and  brood." 

Sister  Irmingarde's  lips  twisted  in  a  queer 
way,  and  she  turned  her  face  from  us  for  a 
moment.  When  she  looked  at  us  she  was 
very  sympathetic. 

"It  sounds  quite  alarming,"  she  said, 
soberly.  "And  to  what  do  you  attribute 
all  this?" 

Then  Mabel  and  I  spoke  up  together  in 
clear,  ringing  tones,  just  like  one  of  those 
Greek  choruses  you  read  about. 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

"To  you,"  was  our  unanimous  cry. 

Sister  Irmingarde  sat  down  suddenly, 
but  before  she  could  speak  I  went  right  on. 

"It  is  love,  Sister,"  I  said.  "Love  for 
you  that  has  blossomed  in  our  hearts.  We 
have  tried  to  be  strong,  but  we  have  suf 
fered.  Now  we  must  know  from  your  own 
lips  to  which  of  us  you  have  given  your 
heart  in  return.  Then  the  other  will  go 
far,  far  away  from  the  scene  of  your  hap 
piness,  and  if  she  lives  she  will  strive  to 
forget." 

I  might  have  said  more,  but  just  then 
Mabel  Blossom  sniffled  so  loudly  that  I 
could  hardly  hear  myself  talk,  and  at  that 
identical  moment  Sister  Irmingarde  laid 
her  arms  on  her  desk  and  buried  her  face 
in  them.  Then  we  saw  her  form  shake, 
and  we  heard  stange  sounds. 

My  heart  stopped  beating.  Mabel  told 
me  afterwards  that  hers  did,  too.  She  look 
ed  at  Sister  with  her  eyes  hanging  out  on 
her  cheeks,  and  I  saw  her  lips  part,  as  if 
114 


Love,  the   Destroyer 

she  was  going  to  speak.  I  checked  her 
with  a  royal  gesture.  It  was  sad,  sad,  that 
Sister  Irmingarde  should  suffer,  but  had 
we  not  suffered,  too  ?  And  I  saw  now  that 
it  was  a  difficult,  yea,  a  terrible  choice  we 
were  forcing  her  to  make.  I  drew  myself 
up,  and  stood  there  pale  but  calm,  and 
Mabel  Blossom,  after  an  admiring  look  at 
me,  did  the  same.  Thus  we  waited,  and 
thus  she  saw  us  as  she  raised  her  stately, 
black-robed  head.  The  sight  must  have 
touched  her  deeply,  we  knew,  for  she  put 
it  down  again  right  off,  and  we  heard  her  say, 
"Oh,  oh,  oh!"  like  that,  three  times.  Still 
we  waited,  grim,  implacable,  and  finally 
she  took  her  handkerchief  out  of  her  pocket, 
and  wiped  her  eyes  and  raised  her  face 
again. 

Then  I  spoke,  very  softly  and  tenderly, 
and  I  told  her  some  of  the  things  I  had 
been  reading  about  love  since  it  came  into 
my  life.  I  said  it  brought  sorrow,  but  it 
brought  joy,  too,  and  I  said  she  must  not 
"5 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

blame  herself,  for  both  Mabel  and  I  felt  it 
had  developed  our  characters  and  given  us 
a  shield  to  carry  on  our  breasts  in  life's  grim 
and  terrible  struggle.  Her  head  went  down 
again  at  that,  and  she  gasped  out  some 
thing  about  "extraordinary  infants"  being 
the  death  of  her,  and  then  Mabel  Blossom 
and  I  discovered  something  at  the  same 
moment.  I  will  put  it  in  large  letters,  so 
you  will  understand  how  important  it  was : 
SHE  WAS  LAUGHING! 

You  will  not  believe  the  evidence  of  your 
horrified  eyes  as  you  read  this.  Neither  did 
Mabel  Blossom  and  I  as  we  saw  it.  But 
it  is,  indeed,  all  too  true,  and  I  will  simply 
put  it  down  without  saying  much  about  it. 
For  if  the  gentle  reader  knows  anything  at 
all,  he  will  know  how  we  felt.  She  was 
laughing,  and  she  kept  on  laughing,  though 
we  could  see  she  was  trying  hard  to  stop, 
and  that  she  was  embarrassed  over  it,  as 
well  she  might  be.  Finally  she  was  able  to 
speak,  and  she  said  she  hoped  we  would 
116 


Love,  the   Destroyer 

forgive  her,  and  she  murmured  something 
about  fearing  she  had  been  discourteous 
and  unsympathetic.  Mabel  had  stopped 
looking  like  Saint  Cecilia  by  that  time,  and 
her  face  was  very  red.  I  guess  mine  was, 
too.  Suddenly  Sister  Irmingarde  sat  up 
straight  and  "pulled  herself  together,"  as 
my  brother  Jack  says,  and  then  she  talked 
to  us  beautifully  for  a  long  time,  and  when 
she  finished  we  felt  as  if  she  was  nine  hun 
dred  and  twenty  years  old  and  we  were  just 
six.  I  never  felt  so  young  before.  She 
said,  of  course,  she  liked  us  both,  just  as 
she  liked  all  the  girls,  and  that  she  was 
deeply  interested  in  our  development,  and 
that  we  must  be  sensible  girls  and  avoid 
foolish  and  hysterical  sentiment.  While 
she  was  talking  we  didn't  feel  so  bad,  be 
cause  she  was  so  sweet  and  nice  about  it. 
But  after  she  had  dismissed  us,  and  we  went 
out  into  the  hall  and  looked  at  each  other, 
our  sensitive  natures  realized  what  had 
happened. 

9  117 


May  Iverson  — Her   Book 

I  will  not  dwell  here  upon  our  sufferings. 
Oh,  if  we  could  but  die  now,  and  she  could 
see  us  lying  pallid  and  cold!  But  we  are 
both  rather  healthy  girls,  and  we  fear  we 
must  remain  on  earth  a  few  years  longer. 
One  thing  is  certain.  We  will  never  love 
again.  I  have  destroyed  the  steel  pen  she 
gave  me  out  of  her  box  one  day,  and  Mabel 
has  thrown  away  the  piece  of  chalk  she  had 
been  cherishing,  because  Sister  Irmingarde 
used  it  once.  Maudie  Joyce  is  giving  a  lit 
tle  Welsh  -  rabbit  supper  to-morrow  night 
to  cheer  and  comfort  us,  she  says.  It  won't, 
but  we  have  decided  to  go,  so  those  thought 
less  girls  can  look  at  us  and  see  how  bravely 
grief  can  be  borne  by  noble  souls.  Even 
our  aching  hearts  find  a  faint  gleam  of  com 
fort  in  this  thought.  We  can  never  again 
be  happy,  but  we  can  still  be  models  to  the 
young. 

N.B. — Sister  Irmingarde  did  not  read  this 
chapter  to  the  class. 


V 
Sister   Estelle   to  the   Rescue 

JHIS  chapter  is  about  a  school 
girl,  a  famous  authoress,  and 
a  little  novice.  They  were 
not  one  person;  they  were 
three  persons,  and  they  were 
the  leading  characters  in  a  human  drama 
which  took  place  under  my  own  innocent 
eyes,  and  taught  a  great  vital  truth  to 
Maudie  Joyce,  Mabel  Blossom,  and  me. 
The  great  truth  was  this,  and  I  will  men 
tion  it  now,  because  if  I  leave  it  till  the 
end  careless  readers  may  skip  it: 

Sometimes  people  you  think  know  every 
thing  don't  know  a  thing,  while  others  who 
seem  simple  and  inexperienced  know  a  lot. 
It  was  the  little  novice  who  knew  so 
119 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

much,  and  it  was  the  woman  author  who 
didn't  know  a  thing.  These  startling  facts 
will  show  you  how  exciting  this  chapter  is 
going  to  be. 

Janet  Trelawney  was  the  school-girl,  and 
I  mention  her  last  because  she  came  into  the 
story  first,  and  is  really  the  most  important 
person  in  it.  So,  of  course,  I  could  not  have 
her  in  the  very  opening  paragraph,  for  this 
chapter  is  a  kind  of  play,  and  the  leading 
lady  is  hardly  ever  on  the  stage  when  the 
curtain  goes  up.  I  have  observed  this  at 
the  matinee,  where  I  have  been  making  a 
careful  study  of  the  drama,  as  I  intend  to 
write  a  play  myself  some  Saturday  when  I 
have  time.  But  of  that  more  anon,  as  real 
writers  say.  You  cannot  expect  a  school 
girl  to  do  everything  at  once,  and  when  I 
think  of  what  Maudie  Joyce  and  Mabel 
Blossom  and  I  have  already  accomplished 
at  the  early  age  of  fourteen,  a  maiden  blush 
bepaints  my  cheek,  as  Juliet  said  when  she 
was  sure  he  really  cared  for  her, 
1 20 


Sister   Estelle   to   the   Rescue 

Juliet  was  only  fourteen,  too,  and  it  is 
very  comforting  to  Mabel  and  Maudie  and 
me  to  have  Shakespeare  know  so  much 
about  the  heart  at  that  age,  and  show  peo 
ple  how  mature  it  is,  and  how  Juliet  could 
suffer  and  have  all  kinds  of  other  feelings 
of  which  most  people  little  wot.  I  remind 
papa  and  mamma  of  Juliet  every  time  they 
thoughtlessly  treat  me  as  a  child,  and  they 
sink  into  an  awe-struck  silence,  too;  for, 
of  course,  they  don't  know  as  much  as 
Shakespeare  did,  so  they  cannot  contradict 
him.  All  they  can  say  is  that  she  was  only 
literature,  and  it  happened  long  ago,  any 
how.  Then  I  remind  them  that  literature 
is  the  faithful  chronicling  of  what  happens, 
like  this  book  about  St.  Catharine's,  -and 
that  "  the  human  heart  is  the  same  in  every 
age  and  clime."  Maudie  Joyce  found  this 
sentence  in  a  book,  and  I  am  very  glad  she 
did,  for  when  I  remind  them  of  that,  papa 
and  mamma  just  fade  away  and  suddenly 
remember  things  they  have  to  do.  Fort- 

121 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

unate,  indeed,  are  those  who  have  logical 
minds,  though  I  have  often  wondered  where 
mine  came  from.  Papa  is  a  brave  officer  and 
mamma  is  charming  in  society,  but  I  have 
noticed  that  when  there  is  hard  thinking  to 
be  done  in  our  family  they  are  glad  and  re 
lieved  to  have  me  do  it. 

But  all  this  time  I  am  leaving  poor  Janet 
Trelawney  in  the  wings,  as  it  were,  waiting 
for  her  cue,  and  she  is  not  a  girl  who  likes 
to  be  kept  waiting  for  anything.  So  I  will 
hurriedly  bring  her  in,  just  as  she  came  into 
the  class-room  herself  that  bright  October 
day,  when  the  golden  leaves  were  dropping 
from  the  maples.  Maudie  Joyce  wrote  that 
sentence  and  asked  me  to  put  it  in,  so  I 
will.  But  I  could  have  thought  of  one  just 
as  nice. 

We  all  liked  Janet  Trelawney,  even  the 
very  first  day.  She  had  brown  eyes,  large, 
and  with  the  brightest  kind  of  a  shine  in 
them,  and  I  think  she  had  the  whitest  teeth 
I  ever  saw.  Her  complexion  was  dark 

122 


Sister  Estelle  to   the   Rescue 

brown,  and  when  she  smiled  her  face  looked 
as  if  some  one  had  lit  a  light  inside  of  it, 
somehow.  You  know  what  I  mean.  I 
could  say  that  it  was  radiant,  or  brilliant, 
but  Sister  Irmingarde  has  warned  me  very 
earnestly  to  "  avoid  trite  figures  of  speech," 
and  to  say  things  in  my  own  words.  But 
sometimes  I  cannot  think  of  words  no  one 
has  ever  used  before,  and  this  is  one  of 
them,  so  you  will  have  to  imagine  for  your 
self  how  Janet  looked.  As  I  said,  we  liked 
her  at  first,  Mabel  and  Maudie  and  I ;  and 
Mabel  Muriel  Murphy  and  Kittie  James 
said  they  did,  too.  I  don't  know  how  the 
other  girls  felt,  but  that  did  not  matter  so 
much,  of  course.  They  'most  always  think 
what  we  do,  anyhow.  Their  minds  are  not 
mature,  like  ours,  and  their  knowledge  of 
life  is  far  less  vast. 

One  thing  about  Janet  seemed  to  us  very 

strange,  indeed.     She  never  told  us  where 

she  came  from,  or  who  her  people  were,  or 

anything  like  that.     And  when  we  asked 

123 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

about  her  mother,  and  if  she  had  sisters 
and  brothers,  she  made  no  reply,  but  looked 
at  us  with  an  enigmatic  smile  like  the  Sphinx 
or  Monna  Lisa,  I  forget  which.  She  had 
travelled  a  great  deal  and  spoke  French  as 
well  as  she  did  English,  and  played  the  piano 
beautifully  for  a  girl  only  fourteen.  She 
could  make  me  cry  any  time.  I  just  loved 
to  listen  to  her  in  the  twilight,  and  weep 
and  think  how  grim  and  terrible  life  is.  I 
think  that  girl  made  me  shed  gallons  and 
gallons  of  tears,  but  I  didn't  mind.  There 
are  times  when  tears  are  a  relief  to  the 
overburdened  heart. 

Janet  talked  about  Europe  and  her  music 
and  her  lessons  and  all  that,  just  as  the  rest 
of  us  did,  but  when  it  came  to  family  mat 
ters  she  shut  up  like — well,  really,  like  an 
oyster,  or  the  way  a  turtle  draws  its  head 
in;  but  Sister  Irmingarde  will  not  let  me 
use  these  trite  similes,  so  I  will  just  say 
briefly  that  Janet  shut  up,  and  no  one  could 
get  a  word  out  of  her.  This  lasted  two 
124 


Sister   Estelle   to  the   Rescue 

months,  and  I  must  admit  we  were  rather 
curious,  for  even  Maudie  and  Mabel  and  I 
have  a  few  human  failings,  I  suppose,  like 
others.  Yet,  of  course,  when  we  found  she 
did  not  care  to  talk  of  such  things,  we  didn't 
ask  her  any  questions.  We  knew  it  did 
not  matter  who  she  was  if  she  was  nice  her 
self. 

One  night,  when  we  were  talking  about 
life,  and  showing  how  deeply  we  had  stud 
ied  its  problems,  and  how  well  we  under 
stood  its  esoteric  mysteries  (Maudie  got 
that  out  of  a  book) ,  Janet  Trelawney  looked 
at  us  all  of  a  sudden,  with  the  queerest 
smile  on  her  face,  and  then  she  said  a  ter 
rible  thing.  She  said,  as  distinctly  and 
coolly  as  if  her  words  were  nice,  polite  ones, 
"  How  green  you  girls  are !" 

A  silence  fell  upon  us,  like  one  of  those 
fogs  that  fall  over  Nantucket  so  suddenly. 
I  could  hardly  see  the  girls  through  it.  We 
could  not  believe  our  ears.  We  looked,  yea, 
we  stared,  at  Janet  Trelawney,  and  then  we 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

looked  at  each  other.  No  one  spoke  for  a 
moment.  No  one  could.  Janet  kept  on 
smiling  as  if  it  didn't  matter  at  all,  and  she 
pounded  the  cushions  and  made  herself 
more  comfortable  on  Kittie's  divan,  where 
she  was  lying.  We  were  all  in  Kittie 
James's  room.  Finally  Mabel  Blossom 
found  words,  and  she  used  them,  too,  right 
off.  She  said : 

"Janet  Trelawney,  I  think  you  are  a  very 
rude  girl,  and  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

It  was  not  what  real  writers  call  a  scath 
ing  rebuke,  but  it  was  the  best  Mabel  could 
do ;  and  though  I  afterwards  thought  of  lots 
that  were  better,  I  didn't  just  then.  Janet 
kept  right  on  smiling.  "Just  the  same," 
she  said,  in  the  most  aggravating  way,  "  you 
are  green."  And  then  she  drew  up  her  face 
and  began  to  look  inscrutable  again,  like  the 
Sphinx  or  Monna  Lisa. 

Then  I  knew  what  to  do,  and  I  rose  and 
did  it.  I  said  I  had  to  study,  which  was 
true,  and  with  a  polite  bow  to  my  hostess 
126 


Sister   Estelle  to  the   Rescue 

and  the  others  I  swept  from  the  room.  So 
did  Maudie  Joyce  and  Mabel.  That  left 
Kittie  and  Janet  all  alone,  but  they  did  not 
seem  to  mind  their  terrible  isolation.  Janet 
giggled. 

The  next  day  Kittie  James  acted  queer, 
and  avoided  us.  When  we  spoke  to  her  she 
seemed  nervous  and  anxious  to  get  away, 
and  yet  at  the  same  time  we  could  see  she 
wanted  to  stay.  At  first  we  thought  she 
was  angry  because  we  had  left  her  room 
the  way  we  did  the  night  before,  so  I  asked 
her  right  out,  and  explained,  and  she  said, 
"  No,"  and  then  she  began  to  cry.  Kittie 
is  a  darling,  and  we  all  love  her  and  pet  her, 
but,  as  I  have  revealed  to  the  gentle  reader 
in  other  chapters  of  this  book,  Kittie  is  not 
a  brilliant  girl  like  the  rest  of  us.  She  is 
just  dear  and  sweet  and  good  and  nice,  and 
we  must  not  despise  these  gentle  souls,  for 
the  world  needs  them  as  much  as  it  needs 
those  who  are  queer  and  cranky  and  gifted. 
As  for  keeping  things  to  herself,  you  might 
127 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

as  well  tell  them  to  a  phonograph  and  then 
start  the  phonograph  up  and  expect  it  to 
be  discreet  and  reserved  as  to  expect  Kittie 
James  to  keep  a  secret.  All  you  had  to  do 
was  to  press  the  button  and  Kittie  told. 
That  is  a  figure  of  speech.  I  hope  Sister 
Irmingarde  will  leave  it  in.  However,  this 
time  TKittie  was  trying  to  conceal  something, 
and  she  did,  but  we  knew  that  she  suffered 
doing  it.  Even  while  she  suffered,  though, 
you  could  see  that  she  was  excited  and 
rather  set  up  about  something.  It  took  a 
great  deal  of  insight  into  life  to  read  all 
those  different  emotions  in  Kittie's  young 
face,  and  some  of  the  girls  thought  she 
was  only  homesick !  That  shows  how  unob 
servant  the  masses  are.  But  I  followed 
with  unerring  instinct  all  the  child's  com 
plex  sensations,  and  when  I  saw  a  new  one 
I  put  it  right  down  in  my  book.  Usually 
Kittie  was  around  when  I  did  it,  and  at 
first  she  seemed  to  like  it,  but  finally  it  be 
gan  to  make  her  nervous.  I  could  not  help 
128 


Sister   Estelle  to  the   Rescue 

that,  of  course.  The  literary  artist  has 
to  be  like  a  surgeon,  as  I  pointed  out  to 
Kittie,  and  not  mind  the  victim's  shrieks. 

All  this  time  Kittie  and  Janet  Trelawney 
were  getting  more  and  more  friendly,  and 
they  were  together  as  much  as  they  could 
be.  They  used  to  go  off  by  themselves  to 
distant  places  in  the  grounds  and  talk  and 
talk  and  talk.  Then  Kittie  would  come 
back  with  her  eyes  sticking  out  of  her  head 
with  surprise  and  interest,  but  ne'er  did  she 
tell  us  what  it  was  all  about.  The  intelligent 
reader  can  imagine  how  we  felt — the  rest 
of  us  girls,  I  mean.  Mabel  Blossom's  broth 
er  had  a  pet  expression  she  said  he  was  al 
ways  using,  so  Mabel  had  adopted  it,  too, 
and  said  it  a  great  deal  at  school.  It  was 
"  cheer  up ;  the  worst  is  yet  to  come."  Mabel 
repeated  this  often  during  those  dark  days 
when  we  were  watching  Kittie  with  such 
loving  interest  and  apprehension,  but  little 
did  we  wot  how  true  her  words  were.  The 
worst  was  indeed  to  come,  and  it  came  the 
129 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

way  it  always  does  in  life,  alas!  just  when 
you  have  decided  that  you  can  bear  no 
more.  Young  as  I  am,  I  have  observed 
that.  Few  things,  indeed,  escape  me. 

Well,  one  night  we  were  all  together  in 
Janet's  room,  for  the  first  time  in  weeks, 
and,  of  course,  we  began  to  talk  about  life 
and  love  the  way  we  always  do;  for  what 
other  topics,  I  pause  to  ask,  are  worthy  the 
attention  of  intelligent  minds?  And  just 
when  Maudie  Joyce  was  throwing  what 
Mabel  calls  "a  lurid  glare"  on  some  deep 
point,  I  saw  Kittie  glance  at  Janet  and 
Janet  glance  at  Kittie,  and  they  both  smiled 
and  raised  their  eyebrows  and  looked  a  lit 
tle  tired  but  polite.  I  caught  it,  and  so 
did  Mabel,  and,  alas!  Maudie  did,  too,  and 
the  lurid  glare  died  down  right  away,  leav 
ing  us  in  darkness.  Isn't  that  a  clever  way 
of  saying  that  Maudie  stopped  talking  ?  I'm 
so  glad  I  thought  of  it.  Sometimes  things 
like  that  run  right  of?  the  pen  before  you 
know  it,  and  then  the  literary  artist  stops 
130 


Sister   Estelle  to  the   Rescue 

and  gazes  at  her  work  with  surprise  and 
joy.  But  I  must  not,  in  my  absorption  in 
my  art,  forget  the  terrible  situation  in  which 
we  were  placed.  It  was  bad  enough  to  have 
Janet  Trelawney  think  we  were  green,  but 
to  know  that  she  had  told  Kittie  the  things 
she  knew  and  we  didn't,  and  to  see  Kittie 
look  superior,  too — well,  I  shall  have  to  go 
right  on  with  the  story,  for  no  author,  ex 
cept  perhaps  Shakespeare,  could  describe 
the  emotions  that  now  filled  our  breasts. 

Maudie  Joyce  is  a  very  queenly  girl,  as  I 
have  said  before;  and  usually  she  gets 
queenlierandqueenlier  when  she  is  annoyed. 
But  this  time  she  didn't.  She  sat  up  in 
her  chair  like  any  ordinary  person,  and  her 
eyes  flashed,  and  her  voice  trembled,  she 
was  so  angry.  She  said: 

"Janet  Trelawney,  I'm  sick  of  this  silly 
nonsense,  and  we  all  are.  If  you  know  any 
thing  we  don't,  tell  us.  We'll  be  glad.  But 
for  Heaven's  sake  don't  put  on  such  idiotic 
airs." 


May  Iverson— Her   Book 

Janet  looked  a  little  startled,  for  usually 
Maudie  is  such  a  calm  girl  that  it  surprises 
any  one  when  she  gets  stirred  up.  But 
pretty  soon  Janet  began  to  smile  again  in 
that  exasperating  way,  and  when  she  spoke 
she  drawled  her  words  out  as  if  she  wanted 
to  make  us  angrier  still.  She  did,  too,  for 
she  said: 

"Oh,  there's  nothing  I'm  anxious  to  tell. 
Besides,  perhaps  there's  nothing  you  ought 
to  hear." 

I  longed  to  walk  out  again,  but  I  wanted 
to  hear  what  Maudie  would  say,  so  I  stayed. 
She  looked  at  Janet  a  minute  and  then  she 
got  up  and  crossed  the  room  to  where  she 
was  and  sat  down  beside  her.  When  she 
spoke  we  saw  that  she  wasn't  angry  at  all 
any  more.  It  was  Maudie  Joyce  at  her 
dearest  and  fairest  and  best  who  was  speak 
ing — and  when  Maudie  is  that  way,  dear 
me,  how  we  all  love  her! 

"See  here,  Jan,"  she  said,  "what  are  we 
fussing  about,  anyway?  I  beg  your  par- 
132 


Sister   Estelle  to   the   Rescue 

don  for  losing  my  temper  and  being  so  silly. 
Of  course,  we  girls  don't  want  you  to  tell 
us  any  private  things.  We  never  asked 
any  questions,  you  know,  since  we  saw  you 
didn't  care  to  answer.  But  we  like  to  know 
all  we  can  about  life  and  the  world,  and  if 
you'll  tell  us  all  you  know  we'll  be  very — 
why,  very  grateful.  Perhaps  you  can  teach 
us  a  lot?" 

Now  wasn't  that  generous  and  fair  ?  And 
you'd  better  believe  it  wasn't  easy  for 
Maudie  Joyce  to  say  it,  either,  for  she  is  not 
a  humble  girl.  I  gave  her  a  loving  smile, 
and  so  did  Mabel.  Janet  Trelawney  looked 
down  on  the  floor  and  hesitated,  and  Kittie 
James  looked  scared  to  death.  I  saw  it 
and  wondered  why.  All  of  a  sudden  Janet 
raised  her  head  quickly  and  said,  in  a  very 
sharp  voice: 

"Well,  I  just  will.  It  will  teach  you 
girls  something,  too.  It  will  show  you  that 
you  don't  know  as  much  as  you  think  you 
do." 


May   Iverson — Her   Book 

Almost  before  she  had  finished,  Kittie 
James  jumped  to  her  feet  and  ran  to  Janet 
and  put  her  hands  over  her  mouth  and 
simply  screamed,  she  was  so  excited. 

' '  Don't  tell  them, ' '  she  kept  saying.  ' '  Oh, 
don't,  don't,  don't!"  Every  "don't"  was 
louder  than  the  last  one.  Then  Kittie 
crumpled  up  into  a  heap  on  the  floor,  and 
buried  her  head  in  a  sofa-cushion  and  be 
gan  to  cry.  Have  I  said  before  that  she 
was  a  nervous  child?  She  was. 

The  literary  artist  must  tell  the  truth, 
so  I  will  confess  right  now  that  I  hadn't 
the  least  idea  what  it  was  all  about.  I  just 
stared.  So  did  Mabel.  But  Maudie  Joyce 
seemed  to  know.  She's  a  little  older  than 
we  are.  She  stood  up  and  looked  down  at 
Janet  Trelawney,  and  she  looked  taller  than 
I  ever  saw  her  before,  and  her  eyes  blazed 
again. 

"So  that's  it!"  she  said,  very  slowly. 
"You've  been  telling  little  Kittie  things  you 
don't  dare  to  tell  us.  I'm  glad  you  haven't 


Sister   Estelle   to   the   Rescue 

tried.  We  don't  want  to  hear  them. ' '  Then 
she  gathered  Kittie  up  the  way  you'd  pick 
up  a  rug,  and  pulled  her  out  of  the  room, 
and  motioned  to  Mabel  and  me,  and  we 
both  followed.  Mabel  Blossom's  eyes  were 
starting  out  of  her  head .  I  guess  mine  were, 
too. 

We  went  to  Maudie's  room,  and  she  bathed 
Kittie's  face  and  talked  to  her  about  all 
sorts  of  cheerful  things,  and  laughed  over 
some  jokes  we  had  about  our  lessons  and 
some  of  the  girls,  but  she  never  mentioned 
Janet  or  what  had  happened.  So  Mabel  and 
I  saw  she  didn't  want  to,  and  of  course  we 
didn't,  either.  Pretty  soon  Kittie  stopped 
crying  and  went  off  to  bed.  Then  Maudie 
turned  to  us. 

"Well,"  she  said,  "what  do  you  think  of 
that?" 

We  couldn't  think  anything  at  all,  and 
she  saw  we  couldn't.  We  didn't  seem  to 
have  any  thoughts  to  think  with!  So 
Mabel  said,  rather  peevishly,  "What's  it  all 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

about,  anyhow?"  and  I  waited.  The  poet 
says  silence  is  golden,  and  he  is  indeed  right. 
But  I  have  found  out  all  by  myself  that  the 
time  it's  most  golden  is  when  you  don't 
know  anything  to  say.  Maudie  looked  at 
us  and  seemed  worried,  and  thought  a  long 
time,  while  we  waited  respectfully.  Then, 
suddenly,  she  began  to  look  queenly  again, 
and  we  saw  she  felt  better;  and  when  she 
spoke  it  was  in  the  kind  of  high-flown  man 
ner  she  puts  on  sometimes,  and  that  Mabel 
and  I  don't  like.  It  makes  her  seem  ages 
and  ages  older  than  we  are.  I  felt  like  a 
Sunday-school  class. 

"  I  will  explain  this  matter  to  your  inno 
cent  young  minds,"  Maudie  said,  "for  the 
situation  that  confronts  us  is  indeed  serious. 
Who,  alas!  can  tell  what  may  come  of  it?" 
And  then  she  went  on  to  say  that  evidently 
Janet's  people  were  not  nice,  and  Janet  had 
seen  and  heard  all  sorts  of  things,  and  had 
told  some  dreadful  ones  to  Kittie.  And 
Maudie  said,  dramatically:  "The  mischief 
136 


Sister   Estelle  to   the   Rescue 

is  done  there.  All  we  can  do  is  to  help  the 
child  to  forget.  But  if  Janet  has  told  Kit- 
tie  she  will  tell  others.  How  shall  we  pro 
tect  the  school?" 

Then  we  saw  that  it  was  serious,  and 
Mabel  Blossom  said  right  off  she  thought 
Janet  should  be  sent  home,  and  Maudie 
seemed  to  think  so,  too.  Yet  we  couldn't 
tell  on  her,  of  course.  Or  could  we,  for  the 
good  of  the  others?  We  didn't  know. 
Finally,  I  remembered  something  else, 
and  I  asked  Maudie  what  about  Janet. 
Wouldn't  it  be  bad  for  her  to  send  her  home 
if  her  home  was  such  a  dreadful  place  ?  Per 
haps  her  family  had  sent  her  to  St.  Cath 
arine's  to  give  her  the  only  chance  she 
could  have  of  something  better.  Maudie 
admitted  at  once  that  this  was  true,  and 
then  we  puzzled  and  puzzled  and  puzzled, 
but  we  couldn't  think  what  to  do.  You 
see,  it  was  really  quite  a  problem  for  our 
young  minds,  for  if  we  asked  any  of  the 
Sisters  we  would  betray  Janet,  and  if  we 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

didn't  she  might  do  more  harm  among  the 
girls.  So  we  thought  and  thought,  and 
Mabel's  eyebrows  got  all  braided  up,  and 
Maudie  chewed  her  under  lip  the  way  she 
always  does;  but  need  I  mention  to  the 
intelligent  reader  whose  mind  it  was  that 
finally  solved  the  problem?  It  was  mine. 
I  remembered  something  more,  and  I  spoke 
right  up. 

"Let's  ask  Sarah  Underhill  Worthing- 
ton,"  I  said.  The  girls  looked  at  me,  and 
I  saw  the  light  in  their  eyes  that  comes 
there  when  Sister  Irmingarde  reads  my 
things  aloud  to  the  class.  I  knew  I  had  hit 
the  very  plan,  so  I  sat  back  and  looked  un 
conscious  and  modest,  and  hummed  a  little, 
carelessly,  to  show  them  it  had  been  easy. 

Of  course  you  know  who  Sarah  Underhill 
Worthington  is,  but  I  will  tell  you,  anyhow. 
She  is  a  very  famous  author,  indeed,  and 
she  writes  about  girls  all  the  time — never 
about  anything  else.  It  doesn't  make  any 
difference  what  kind  of  girls  they  are — poor 
138 


Sister   Estelle  to  the   Rescue 

or  rich,  or  common  or  well-bred,  or  society 
girls — very  young  ones — or  working-girls, 
Sarah  Underhill  Worthington  writes  about 
them  and  knows  them  to  the  core.  All  the 
critics  say  that  no  one  "understands  girl 
nature"  the  way  she  does,  or  "probes  the 
hidden  recesses  of  their  natures  so  well"; 
and  I  know  this  is  true,  because  I  myself 
am  exactly  like  all  the  different  kinds  of 
girls  she  writes  about.  So  we  read  every 
thing  she  does — or  at  least  we  used  to  be 
fore  we  discovered  that  she  was  a  hollow 
mockery  and  a  whited  sepulchre  and  other 
things  like  that.  It  was  because  we  ad 
mired  her  so  much  that  the  Sisters  engaged 
her  to  come  to  St.  Catharine's  and  give  us 
a  lecture  on  "The  Heart  of  a  Girl."  She 
was  coming  the  next  day,  and  her  lecture 
was  to  be  the  next  night,  and  I  recalled 
these  vital  facts,  and  spoke  her  magic  name 
at  the  critical  moment  I  have  so  well  de 
scribed.  Mabel  Blossom  got  right  up  and 
hugged  me,  and  Maudie  gave  me  an  appro  v- 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

ing  smile  and  said,  "May  Iverson,  you  are 
a  wonder."  Oh,  how  pleasant  to  the  ear 
is  the  heartfelt  tribute  of  a  friend ! 

We  arranged  all  the  details  at  once.  We 
decided  to  get  the  authoress  by  herself,  to 
show  her  the  grounds,  or  something,  and 
then  one  of  us  would  tell  her  about  Janet, 
in  strict  confidence,  without  mentioning 
names,  and  ask  her  advice.  She  would  tell 
us  exactly  what  to  do,  and  we  would  do  it ; 
for,  of  course,  she  would  know.  I  said  I 
would  tell  her.  Then  we  all  went  to  bed. 

The  next  day  Sarah  Underhill  Worthing- 
ton  arrived,  and  we  girls  were  wild  with  ex 
citement  and  curiosity,  for  we  had  never 
seen  a  real  authoress  before.  As  the  great 
secret  of  my  art  is  that  I  write  of  life  and 
people  just  the  way  they  are,  I  shall  have 
to  tell  exactly  how  Sarah  Underhill  Worth- 
ington  looked.  Our  hearts  sank  as  we 
gazed  upon  her.  We  had  expected  a  tall 
and  slender  woman,  in  soft  black  silk,  with 
a  willowy  figure  and  shining  eyes,  and 
140 


Sister   Estelle  to   the   Rescue 

heavy  coils  of  wavy,  brown  hair,  and  lips 
touched  with  fire.  That  is  the  way  we 
thought  a  famous  authoress  ought  to  look — 
and  young,  too.  But  Sarah  Underhill 
Worthington  was  quite  an  old  woman — 
about  forty,  I  should  think — and  very,  very 
thin  and  stiff — not  willowy  a  bit.  Her  hair 
was  drawn  back  in  a  little  bun  and  it  looked 
loose,  "as  if  but  one  hair-pin  supported  the 
frail  burden,"  Mabel  Blossom  said.  Her 
dress  did  not  fit,  and  it  looked  as  if  she 
had  forgotten  it  first,  and  then  hastily  re 
turned  and  added  it  to  herself  at  the  last 
moment.  She  wore  glasses,  and  when  any 
thing  interested  her  she  took  them  off  quick 
ly  and  rubbed  them  with  her  handkerchief, 
and  put  them  on  again,  and  stared  hard  at 
the  object; 'and  usually  the  object  was  a 
girl,  so  it  was  quite  embarrassing.  She 
did  that  several  times  when  we  said  things, 
but  all  she  said  was  "Indeed"  and  "Quite 
so."  She  was  English,  so  of  course  her  face 
was  red.  She  was  not  beautiful. 
141 


May   Iverson — Her  Book 

When  I  took  her  out  in  the  grounds  she 
seemed  to  be  much  more  interested  in  the 
Sisters  than  in  the  girls,  and  she  rubbed  her 
glasses  and  stared  every  time  one  of  them 
came  in  sight;  but  finally  I  got  her  off  where 
there  weren't  any  Sisters,  and  I  invited  her 
to  sit  under  a  tree,  and  then  I  told  her 
about  Janet  and  Kittie.  At  first  she  didn't 
seem  much  impressed,  but  by-and-by  she 
asked  a  few  questions  and  began  to  rub  her 
glasses  and  look  at  me,  and  say,  "  Quite  so," 
and  then  I  knew  her  heart  was  touched,  so 
I  asked  her  what  we  should  do.  The  gentle 
reader  will  hardly  believe  me  when  I  tell 
the  rest — but  Sarah  Underhill  Worthing- 
ton  didn't  know!  She  had  written  books 
about  girls  and  lectured  about  their  hearts 
and  travelled  all  over  the  world,  but  she 
didn't  know  a  little  thing  like  that.  Only 
a  few  days  later  I  read  a  poem  about  the 
lost  illusions  of  youth,  and  I  knew  right  off 
what  it  meant.  It  meant  Sarah  Underhill 
Worthington. 

142 


Sister   Estelle   to   the   Rescue 

She  said,  "  Bless  my  heart,  dear  child, 
I've  no  knowledge  whatever  of  the  incident, 
don't  you  know,  and  I'm  a  mere  outsider 
at  the  best,  can't  you  see,  and  'twould  be 
most  extraordinary  if  I  interfered  in  such  a 
matter  in  the  slightest  degree,  don't  you 
know,  and  I'm  quite  sure  the — er — Sisters 
would  be  most  annoyed  if  a  stranger  thrust 
herself  into  their  affairs,  don't  you  see? 
Quite  so."  That  was  all  I  could  get  out 
of  the  greatest  living  writer  of  girls'  stories, 
and  the  author  who  understood  our  simple 
girlish  hearts  the  best.  So  after  I  had  ex 
plained  it  all  several  times,  and  she  had  said 
every  time,  "  Quite  so,  quite  so,  but  I'm 
quite  outside  of  it  all,  don't  you  know,"  we 
stopped  talking,  and  I  turned  slow,  reluctant 
feet  towards  the  place  where  Mabel  and 
Maudie  were  waiting.  For  you'd  better  be 
lieve  I  didn't  like  to  tell  them  I  had  failed. 

As  I  went  through  the  grounds  on  my 
way  back  to  them,  I  saw  a  little  novice  off 
at  the  left  of  the  path,  pacing  up  and  down 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

on  a  shady  walk  under  some  trees,  reading 
a  book.  There  was  no  one  else  near,  so  I 
walked  slowly  and  looked  at  her,  because 
some  day  I  am  going  to  make  a  careful 
study  of  the  mind  and  heart  of  a  novice, 
and  write  a  story  telling  exactly  why  wom 
en  enter  the  cloister.  After  that  people 
will  stop  wondering  about  it  and  thinking 
it  is  because  they  have  had  sad  love  affairs. 
This  novice  was  very,  very  lovely,  I  dis 
covered  at  once,  and  there  was  the  sweetest 
expression  on  her  face — happiness  and  a 
kind  of  inward  shine  and  an  uplifted  look, 
as  if  she  were  listening  to  beautiful  music 
or  something.  We  are  not  supposed  to 
have  much  to  do  with  the  novices,  but  I 
was  interested,  and,  of  course,  my  art  comes 
first  of  all,  so  I  stopped  and  spoke  to  her 
very  politely.  When  I  did  it,  I  hadn't  the 
least  idea  of  telling  her  about  Janet,  but 
when  she  closed  her  book  and  looked  at 
me  I  began  to  wish  I  dared.  Afterwards 
I  learned  that  she  was  a  visitor  from  an- 
144 


Sister    Estelle   to  the   Rescue 

other  convent,  and  was  a  young  sister  of 
the  Mother  Superior;  but  I  did  not  know 
these  things  then,  so  I  was  quite  surprised 
when  she  invited  me  to  sit  down  on  a 
bench,  and  sat  beside  me,  and  began  to 
chat  very  sweetly  and  naturally  like  any 
lady  in  a  drawing-room.  Usually  they  are 
so  shy.  She  said  she  had  hoped  to  visit 
some  of  the  classes  and  meet  two  or  three 
of  the  girls,  especially  those  who  were 
"studying  life,"  but  now  she  feared  she 
could  not,  as  she  was  leaving  unexpectedly 
the  next  day.  Then  I  saw  that  it  was  fate 
and  I  told  her  my  name.  Sister  Irmingarde 
had  shown  her  two  of  my  stories,  and  she 
said  I  was  making  "a  promising  begin 
ning."  Those  were  indeed  her  words.  We 
talked  about  literature  for  a  while,  and 
then,  somehow,  before  I  knew  I  was  doing 
it,  I  told  her  all  about  Janet  and  Kittie 
and  Sarah  Underhill  Worthington  and  how 
disappointed  I  was.  I  requested  her  to 
regard  the  matter  as  a  sacred  confidence, 
145 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

and  though  she  smiled  and  didn't  make 
any  promises,  I  knew  she  would. 

Of  course  I  never  thought  of  asking  her 
advice,  because,  you  see,  we  girls  know 
more  about  life  than  the  Sisters  do,  and  we 
are,  indeed,  careful  to  keep  the  grim  and 
terrible  facts  of  existence  from  their  inno 
cent  ears — the  poor  darlings !  I  have  some 
times  suspected  that  some  of  them  may 
know  more  than  we  think,  but  this  has  been 
but  a  fleeting  impression,  dispelled  by  the 
cold  light  of  reason,  as  real  writers  say. 

But  Sister  Estelle — I  asked  her,  and  she 
told  me  that  was  her  name — seemed  to  un 
derstand  everything  right  away,  as  well  as 
I  did.  She  saw  at  once  why  honor  wouldn't 
let  us  tell  the  other  Sisters,  and  she  seemed 
to  think  it  was  very,  very  important  that 
we  should  think  of  Janet,  too.  She  looked 
grave  for  a  moment  and  she  seemed  to  be 
thinking,  but  suddenly  she  turned  to  me 
with  a  beautiful  smile  and  asked  if  I  would 
allow  her  to  make  a  suggestion.  She  could, 
146 


Sister   Estelle   to   the   Rescue 

she  said,  because  she  was  not  one  of  the 
faculty.  Then  I  reminded  her  that  Sarah 
Underbill  Worthington  had  said  she  couldn't 
help  because  she  was  an  outsider,  and  Sis 
ter  Estelle  smiled  again  and  said,  "There 
is  no  outsider  in  our  Community."  So  I 
understood  that  she  was  both  outside  and 
inside — outside  because  she  wasn't  a  teach 
er  at  St.  Catharine's,  and  inside  because 
she  belonged  to  the  same  great  Convent 
Order.  I  drew  a  long  breath  and  begged 
her  to  help  us,  and  she  said  at  once: 

"  Why  not  leave  it  all  to  the  student  her 
self  ?  Put  the  situation  to  her  exactly  as  you 
have  put  it  to  me.  Show  her  what  harm  she 
may  yet  do,  and  put  her  on  her  honor  not  to 
do  it.  She  must  have  good  in  her.  You  say 
you  liked  her  at  first.  Give  her  this  chance. 
Then  if  she  refuses — come  and  tell  me." 

You  see  how  simple  it  was — so  very  sim 
ple  we  had  not  thought  of  it,  and  neither 
had  Sarah  Underhill  Worthington.  I 
thanked  the  dear  little  novice  and  left  her 
147 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

at  once,  for  I  wanted  to  try  her  plan.  When 
I  found  Maudie  and  Mabel  and  told  them, 
they  saw  right  away  that  it  was  the  best 
thing  to  do,  so  we  did  it  then  and  there — 
or,  rather,  Maudie  did,  while  Mabel  and  I 
waited.  She  found  Janet  and  took  her 
off  to  a  distant  corner  of  the  grounds,  under 
a  willow,  and  they  stayed  there  an  hour. 
When  they  came  back  Janet's  eyes  looked 
red,  and  she  went  right  on  to  her  room, 
but  she  did  not  act  angry.  She  seemed 
ashamed  and  humble  and  gentle.  I  will 
add  right  here  that  never  again  did  Janet 
Trelawney  "inject  the  poison  of  her  past 
into  our  innocent  minds,"  as  Maudie  said; 
and  the  best  of  it  all  was  that  there  didn't 
seem  to  be  any  poison  left  in  her  mind,  ei 
ther.  We  had  kind  of  vaccinated  it,  I  guess 
—Mabel  and  Maudie  and  I,  and  the  dear 
little  novice  who  seemed  to  have  probed 
some  of  life's  esoteric  mysteries  all  by  her 
self,  and  to  know  'most  as  much  as  we  did 
about  the  human  heart. 
148 


VI 

Adeline   Thurston,   Poetess 


chapter  is  about  Adeline 
Thurston  and  how  she  came 
into  my  life  and  'most  wreck 
ed  it.  Also  about  how  she 
was  foiled  by  Mabel  Blos 
som,  my  noble  school-mate  and  friend  at  St. 
Catharine's.  Thank  you,  Mabel,  for  what 
you  did,  and  forgive  me  if  I  have  not  al 
ways  seemed  to  appreciate  your  beautiful 
nature  in  this  book.  I  do  now.  This 
chapter  will  show  it.  These  lines  are  a 
preface.  The  real  chapter  begins  on  the 
line  below  this  one  : 

Adeline  Thurston  was  a  new  girl  at  St. 
Catharine's;  but  I  would  not  write  about 
her  for  that  reason,  as  there  are  a  great 
ii  149 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

many  new  girls  every  year,  and  all  too  few 
of  them,  alas!  are  worthy  of  the  time  and 
attention  of  a  literary  artist.  They  are 
pretty  much  alike,  you  know.  Usually  they 
are  very  unhappy  and  quite  haughty  for  a 
few  days,  and  they  talk  a  good  deal  about 
their  homes  and  the  clothes  they  have 
brought  with  them,  and  during  this  time 
Maudie  Joyce  and  Mabel  Blossom  and  Mabel 
Muriel  Murphy  and  I  stand  slightly  aloof 
and  study  them  with  our  wise  young  eyes 
that  have  probed  life  so  deeply.  We  four 
girls  are  the  leaders  of  the  school,  and,  though 
we  are  only  fourteen,  we  are  so  mature  and 
experienced  that  all  the  others  naturally 
look  up  to  us  and  let  us  decide  things  for 
them,  as  is  fitting.  Nor  is  their  girlish 
confidence  misplaced.  Sister  Irmingarde 
once  told  a  visitor  that  we  are  "an  ex 
ceptionally  bright  quartet."  It  came  back 
to  us  afterwards,  because  the  visitor  re 
peated  it  to  some  one,  and  you  can  imagine 
whether  we  were  pleased!  Then  we  knew 


Adeline  Thurston,  Poetess 

why  that  guest  had  gazed  upon  us  admiring 
ly,  and  had  hung  upon  our  words  the  way  she 
did  when  we  were  introduced  to  her  on  the 
campus. 

It  is,  indeed,  extraordinary  how  quickly 
we  are  discovered  by  strangers.  I  suppose 
it  is  Maudie  Joyce's  queenly  carriage  they 
notice  first.  Then  they  see  Mabel  Blossom 
trying  to  look  like  St.  Cecilia  (she  always 
does  when  visitors  come),  and  next  they 
observe  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy's  dignified 
mien  that  she  learned  from  Sister  Edna.  I 
don't  quite  know  which  quality  they  admire 
most  in  me.  Perhaps  it  is  my  aloofness 
from  worldly  interests  that  is  growing 
upon  me  more  and  more  when  new  plots 
for  stories  come  to  me.  You  cannot  ex 
pect  the  literary  artist,  who  lives  in  a  dream 
world,  to  be  conscious  of  the  small  affairs 
of  those  around  her ;  so,  very  often,  I  don't 
even  see  people  when  I  pass  them.  The 
other  day  in  the  hall  I  walked  right  over 
two  minims  and  upset  them,  and,  my! 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

didn't  they  yell!  But  when  they  found 
out  who  had  done  it  they  flushed  with  child 
ish  joy  and  pride,  and  I  could  hardly  make 
them  get  up.  They  seemed  to  want  to  stay 
right  there.  They  were  nice  little  things, 
only  eight,  so  I  spoke  to  them  very  kindly 
after  I  stood  them  on  their  feet,  and  I  ad 
vised  them  concerning  their  studies — they 
are  bragging  about  it  yet.  How  easy  it  is 
to  make  the  young  happy!  Oh,  innocent, 
care-free  days  of  childhood,  how  oft  do  I 
recall  ye  now  in  these  grim  months  of  in 
tellectual  strife,  when  we  seem  to  be  hav 
ing  written  examinations  all  the  time !  But 
I  must  not  digress.  I  am  learning  not  to. 
I  will  return  to  Adeline. 

As  I  said  before,  when  new  girls  come  to 
St.  Catharine's,  Maudie  and  Mabel  Blossom 
and  Mabel  Muriel  and  I  spend  a  few  days 
in  quiet  observation  of  them  before  we  de 
cide  whether  to  admit  them  into  our  very 
innermost  circle  right  away  or  to  leave 
them  for  a  few  months  in  "  outer  darkness," 
152 


Adeline  Thurston,  Poetess 

as  Mabel  Blossom  calls  it.  Outer  darkness 
is  a  kind  of  probation,  and  if  they  are  eager 
and  humble  they  can  learn  things  there 
that  help  to  fit  them  for  our  society.  At 
first  they  are  apt  to  be  quite  haughty  about 
it,  and  say  they  don't  care,  and  try  to  act 
as  if  they  didn't ;  but  in  the  end  they  are 
glad,  indeed,  to  sit  at  our  feet.  And  they  all 
listen  to  my  book,  too,  and  look  at  us  with 
the  awe  which  is  fitting  in  the  presence  of 
the  gifted.  Most  of  them  seem  to  admire 
me  more  than  the  others,  but  of  course  I 
know  it  is  for  my  art,  of  which  I  am  but  the 
humble  instrument. 

Well,  we  expected  that  Adeline  Thurs 
ton  would  do  this,  too,  but  from  the  very 
first  it  was  different  with  her,  somehow. 
She  was  fourteen,  and  tall  for  her  age,  and 
she  had  brown  hair  and  very  light-blue 
eyes,  and  they  were  near-sighted,  so  she 
squinted  a  little,  and  she  didn't  dress  very 
well.  She  wore  queer-looking,  baggy  dress 
es  with  girdles  around  the  waist,  and  she 


May  Iverson — Her  Book 

told  Maudie  Joyce  she  designed  them  all 
herself,  and  that  her  mother  let  her.  She 
said  they  were  individual  and  artistic.  She 
had  her  collars  cut  low  at  the  neck  to  show 
the  curves  of  the  throat,  she  said ;  but  there 
weren't  any  curves,  and  Mabel  Blossom  said 
perhaps  they  had  been  thoughtlessly  left 
at  home.  She  didn't  say  this  to  Adeline,  of 
course,  only  to  us.  Adeline  didn't  seem  to 
mind  a  bit  because  we  didn't  take  her  into 
our  very  innermost  circle  right  away.  She 
kept  by  herself  a  great  deal,  and  was  very 
reserved  and  mysterious,  so  all  the  girls 
began  to  talk  about  her.  Then  I  studied  her 
a  little  myself,  for  if  she  had  a  carking  care 
or  a  secret  sorrow  I  wanted  to  discover  it 
and  write  a  story  about  it.  But  I  couldn't 
discover  anything  except  that  she  chewed 
chalk  during  the  history  hour,  and  wore  the 
same  collar  two  days,  and  wasn't  careful 
about  sewing  buttons  on  her  shoes  when  they 
fell  off,  and  never  had  the  parting  of  her 
hair  straight,  and  had  a  tooth  'way  back 


"ADELINE  SPENT  HOURS  AND  HOURS  BY  HERSELF" 


Adeline   Thurston,   Poetess 

that  needed  to  be  filled.  I  was  not  giving 
her  much  of  my  attention,  for  I  was  almost 
sure  a  new  plot  was  working  in  me,  and  at 
such  times  I  just  sit  and  wait  with  bated 
breath  to  see  what  it  is  going  to  be.  All 
the  girls  let  me  alone  then,  for  fear  they 
will  divert  my  mind  from  my  art.  But  the 
plot  didn't  come  and  nothing  happened, 
and  I  got  tired  waiting. 

So,  finally,  when  Mabel  Blossom  and 
Maudie  Joyce  began  to  tell  me  the  things 
that  were  being  said  about  Adeline  Thurs 
ton,  I  turned  a  lenient  ear  to  their  girlish 
prattle.  They  said  that  Adeline  spent 
hours  and  hours  and  hours  by  herself  in  the 
different  parts  of  the  grounds,  dreaming  on 
the  river-bank  or  musing  under  the  trees. 
And  they  said  she  was  doing  some  kind  of 
special  work,  they  didn't  know  what,  and 
that  after  the  Great  Silence  had  fallen 
and  the  convent  lay  dark  and  still,  Adeline 
Thurston  arose  from  her  snowy  bed  and  did 
things  most  of  the  night.  No  one  knew 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

what  the  things  were,  for  Adeline  wouldn't 
tell.  She  only  looked  mysterious  when 
they  asked,  and  sighed  and  said  perhaps 
they'd  know  some  day. 

I  could  see  that  Maudie  Joyce  was  get 
ting  excited  about  it  and  terribly  inter 
ested.  You  know  how  romantic  she  is,  and 
I  guess  perhaps  she  thought  Adeline  was 
eating  out  her  girlish  heart  over  some  hid 
den  grief.  She  began  to  be  nice  to  Adeline, 
and  went  and  sat  beside  her  several  times, 
and  walked  with  her  one  evening  in  the 
grounds;  but  Adeline  took  it  all  as  quietly 
as  if  Maudie  had  been  one  of  the  minims  in 
stead  of  the  queenliest  girl  in  the  school. 
Once  when  Maudie  asked  her  to  take  a  walk 
she  excused  herself  and  said  she  had  some 
thing  else  to  do!  Maudie's  face  looked 
funny  when  she  told  me  that,  for  her  proud 
nature  had  never  before  known  such  a  re 
buff,  but  she  didn't  get  angry.  She  just 
got  more  interested  than  ever  and  kept 
right  on  being  nice  to  Adeline,  and  was  with 
156 


Adeline  Thurston,  Poetess 

her  so  much  that  Mabel  and  I  hardly  saw 
her  for  days  at  a  time.  I  could  tell  just 
here  how  our  sensitive  natures  suffered  over 
it,  too,  but  I  won't,  for  this  is  not  about  us. 
It  is  about  Adeline,  though  of  course  my 
dear  friend  Mabel  Blossom  comes  into  it 
a  great  deal  on  account  of  the  deeds  she 
did. 

Well,  one  afternoon  Maudie  Joyce  came 
to  me  looking  as  excited  as  if  she  had  just 
been  an  ordinary  girl  with  no  queenly  car 
riage  and  no  control  over  her  emotions. 
She  said  she  would  confide  to  me  a  great 
secret  if  I  would  never,  never,  never  tell, 
and  of  course  I  promised.  I  kept  my 
word,  too,  as  a  general's  daughter  must  do, 
and  you'd  better  believe  it  wasn't  easy, 
either,  with  Mabel  Blossom  asking  me  what 
it  was  and  then  looking  hurt  because  I 
wouldn't  tell.  My  sufferings  were  dread 
ful.  So  were  Mabel's.  Hers  were  worse, 
I  guess;  anyhow,  she  seemed  to  think  they 
were.  So,  finally,  I  got  Maudie  to  tell  her, 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

too,  and  then  we  all  three  knew.  I  will  now 
tell  the  interested  reader,  after  keeping  him 
in  suspense  a  while,  according  to  the  rules 
of  my  art.  Sister  Irmingarde  says  I  should 
not  explain  in  my  book  why  I  do  things — 
but  I  really  must.  I  am  afraid  the  reader 
will  not  know  if  I  don't.  I  will  now  tell 
the  secret,  and  it  will  probably  make  your 
heart  stop  beating,  just  as  it  did  mine. 
And  then  maybe  you  will  get  a  queer  kind 
of  a  sinking,  sick  feeling  in  your  stomach. 
I  did. 

For  Adeline  Thurston  was  a  poet!  She 
wrote  poems. 

That  was  what  she  was  doing  when  she 
sat  up  nights.  And  that  was  why  she 
liked  to  be  alone.  She  was  getting  inspira 
tion,  Maudie  said.  And  then,  while  I  was 
trying  to  take  it  all  in,  and  not  doing  it 
very  well,  either,  Maudie  grabbed  my  arm 
and  began  to  pull  me  towards  the  river.  I 
tried  to  speak,  but  she  put  her  finger  on 
her  lips,  and  after  we  had  walked  quite  a 
158 


Adeline  Thurston,   Poetess 

long  way  she  began  to  move  stealthily,  like 
an  Indian,  and,  of  course,  I  did,  too.  We 
were  careful  not  to  step  on  twigs  that  would 
crackle,  and  not  to  brush  the  branches  of 
the  willows  as  we  passed  under  them.  Fi 
nally  we  came  to  a  kind  of  an  open  place, 
and  Maudie  motioned  to  me  to  stop,  and  she 
put  her  fingers  to  her  lips  again  and  pointed 
at  something,  and  then  I  understood  why 
we  had  come.  The  sun  was  sinking  into 
rest,  and  the  river  lay  bathed  in  its  dying 
rays.  Please  read  that  sentence  twice,  for 
I  worked  hard  on  it  and  I  would  like  to 
have  it  appreciated.  Something  else  was 
bathed  in  its  dying  rays,  too,  and  that  was 
what  Maudie  Joyce  was  pointing  at.  It 
was  Adeline  Thurston,  and  she  stood  with 
her  back  to  us,  and  her  arms  stretched  out 
towards  the  expiring  King  of  Day.  That 
means  the  sun.  Her  head  was  away  back 
and  turned  a  little,  and  we  could  see  that 
her  eyes  were  raised  and  her  mouth  was 
open.  Some  careless,  thoughtless  observers 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

might  have  imagined  something  was  the 
matter  with  Adeline,  but  I  knew  better. 
I  knew  she  was  having  an  attack  of  the 
artistic  temperament,  like  I  do  myself, 
only  mine  acts  different  on  the  outside 
of  me. 

For  a  moment  I  looked  at  the  beautiful 
picture,  and  my  heart  beat  so  I  thought 
Maudie  would  hear  it,  and  my  eyes  filled 
with  slow,  hot  tears.  Then  I  glanced  at 
Maudie,  and  the  uplifted  look  on  her  pure, 
young  face  brought  on  a  strange,  sink 
ing,  sick  feeling.  Maudie  was  staring  at 
Adeline  as  if  her  eyes  would  drop  out. 
She  had  never  looked  at  me  like  that 
— not  even  when  Sister  Irmingarde  was 
reading  some  of  my  book  aloud  to  the 
class.  So  I  knew  she  admired  Adeline's 
poetry  more  than  she  did  my  literary 
work.  I  will  now  describe  what  was  in 
my  heart. 

You  see,  up  to  this  time  I  had  been  the 
only  author  at  St.  Catharine's,  and,  of 
160 


Adeline  Thurston,  Poetess 

course,  it  was  a  great  thing  for  the  girls  to 
have  one  of  their  class-mates  a  real  story 
teller.  I  have  tried  to  keep  humble  and  to 
remember  that  I  am  only  the  stove  in 
which  the  sacred  fire  burns,  as  it  were ;  but 
it  was  nice  to  have  the  girls  make  so  much 
of  me,  and  it  was  nice,  too — kind  of  nice, 
anyhow — to  know  that  some  of  them  were 
jealous.  And  it  was  nice  to  have  the  young 
er  girls  ask  if  they  might  introduce  their 
mothers  and  fathers  to  me  when  they  came 
to  visit  them,  and  to  see  the  little  minims 
swell  with  pride  when  I  remembered  to 
nod  to  them.  And  now  there  was  another 
author  at  St.  Catharine's — and  a  poetess, 
at  that — and  she  would  get  all  the  atten 
tion,  I  knew. 

So  my  heart  kept  sinking  down  more  and 
more,  till  I  was  afraid  something  might 
happen  if  I  stayed  there,  and  I  turned  and 
left  as  quietly  as  we  had  come.  Maudie 
followed  me.  When  we  got  a  long  distance 
from  the  poetess  Maudie  grabbed  my  arm 
161 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

and  asked  me  if  I  didn't  think  it  was  won 
derful.  Her  eyes  were  shining  and  she  was 
very  much  excited  still.  Then  suddenly  I 
remembered  something  and  I  felt  a  little 
better.  I  asked  Maudie  if  Adeline  had 
ever  really  written  any  poems,  or  if  she  just 
stood  round  like  that  and  thought  about 
them  all  to  herself. 

Maudie  put  her  hand  in  her  pocket  with 
out  a  word  and  drew  out— well,  I  wouldn't 
dare  to  say  how  many  poems  of  Adeline 
Thurston's  she  drew  out,  because  you  would 
surely  think  I  was  exaggerating.  But  there 
were  so  many  of  them  that  Maudie  had  to 
carry  her  pocket-handkerchief  in  the  front 
of  her  shirt-waist.  We  sat  down  and  read 
them,  then  and  there ;  and  if  I  felt  sick  be 
fore,  you  can  believe  I  felt  sicker  as  I  read 
the  outpourings  of  that  gifted  soul  of  fire. 
Maudie  wouldn't  let  me  keep  any  of  them 
even  long  enough  to  copy,  but  I  remember 
one  or  two,  and  the  first  one  went  some 
thing  like  this: 

162 


Adeline  Thurston,  Poetess 

"THE  SONG  OF  THE  SEA 

"The  song  of  the  sea  is  in  my  ear, 
Its  lonely,  dreary  cry  I  hear. 
It  calls  to  me — would  I  could  go 
And  leave  this  world  of  friend  and  foe. 
Oh,  would  that  on  the  drifting  sea 
My  body  would  float  along  so  free, 
My  heart  still  back  in  life  with  Maude, 
My  soul  in  heaven,  near  to  God." 

I  didn't  like  it  very  well — that  one. 
There  seemed  to  me  to  be  something  the 
matter  with  it,  somehow,  though  it  was 
certainly  sad  and  tragic.  Maudie  thought 
it  was  beautiful — especially  the  last  two 
lines.  I  learned  it  by  heart  and  recited  it 
to  Mabel  Blossom  later,  after  Maudie  said 
I  might,  and  Mabel  thought  there  was  some 
thing  the  matter  with  it,  too;  and  she  said 
the  poetess  seemed  to  be  so  kind  of  scat 
tered  towards  the  end  of  the  poem  that  it 
made  her  (Mabel)  feel  nervous.  I  felt  bet 
ter  right  away  when  Mabel  said  that,  for 
the  child  has  an  unerring  literary  instinct 
and  likes  all  my  work.  I  remembered  an- 
163 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

other  poem  and  said  it,  and  we  didn't  like 
that  very  much,  either.     It  went  like  this: 

"  WHEN  I  AM  GONE 
"  Oh,  bury  me  deep  'neath  the  starlit  sky, 

Oh,  bury  me  deep  and  long, 
Where  I  can  hear  the  whippoorwill's  twilight 

cry 

And  list  to  the  robin's  song. 
And  drop  no  tear  on  my  new-made  mound, 

Nor  moan  o'er  my  lifeless  clay. 
"Pis  true  that  my  body  is  underground, 
But  my  soul  will  be  far  away." 

Mabel  said  she  never  knew  any  one  who 
seemed  so  anxious  to  have  her  body  and 
soul  in  different  places,  but  I  reminded  her 
that  all  poets  were  like  that.  It  goes  with 
the  artistic  temperament,  and  I  said  I  had 
often  felt  it  myself.  Then  Mabel  giggled, 
and  I  didn't  mind  a  bit.  She  said  she  was 
giggling  at  the  poetry,  and  I  laughed,  too, 
and  I  cannot  tell  you  the  strange  relief  I 
felt  all  of  a  sudden.  Sister  Irmingarde  says 
the  artistic  temperament  is  mercurial,  and 
I  guess  she  is  right.  My  nature  is  very 
164 


Adeline  Thurston,   Poetess 

buoyant  except  when  I'm  writing  on  my 
book.  Then  I  'most  always  feel  sad,  and 
life  seems  terrible.  Mabel  Blossom  says  she 
feels  just  the  same,  but  I'm  sure  I  don't 
know  why  she  should.  She  isn't  writing  a 
book,  but  she  says  it  is  because  she  is  in  it. 
Perhaps  that  does  give  her  a  claim  to  the 
artistic  temperament. 

But  I'm  away  ahead  of  my  plot  again, 
which  is  one  of  my  most  serious  literary 
faults.  I  will  return  to  Maudie  and  the 
poems  she  and  I  read  by  the  river-bank. 

Maudie  thought  all  the  poems  were  beau 
tiful.  Of  course,  she  said,  they  were  not  as 
good  as  Keats — she  raves  over  Keats — nor 
as  good  as  one  or  two  things  Browning  did — 

"Blue  ran  the  flash  across,  violets  were  born," 

for  instance.  She  is  always  quoting  that. 
But  she  said  Adeline  Thurston  was  young, 
and  if  she  lived  a  few  years  more  would 
give  some  great  songs  to  the  world.  She 
said  it  just  that  way.  And  she  said  they 
12  165 


May   Iverson  — Her   Book 

showed  that  Adeline  was  a  deep  student  of 
life,  like  us,  and  "probed  humanity's  heart 
to  its  core."  She  took  that  about  human 
ity's  heart  from  a  lecture  we  had  last  month. 
She  said  Adeline  had  said  she  might  bring 
me  to  the  river  to  look  at  her,  from  a  dis 
tance,  but  we  were  not  to  speak  or  make  a 
noise,  as  we  might  disturb  some  Thought. 
And  Adeline  said  she  might  tell  a  few  of  the 
other  girls,  too,  but  to  warn  them  not  to  dis 
turb  her,  or  to  address  her  too  abruptly  when 
they  met  her.  She  said  a  poem  getting 
born  in  the  heart  was  like  a  bird  sitting  on 
a  tree,  and  that  it  was  easily  scared  away. 

Well,  that  was  the  beginning  of  it  all.  I 
will  now  describe  what  followed.  Maudie 
told  a  few  more  girls,  and  then  more  and 
more,  till  pretty  soon  the  whole  school 
knew  it,  and  no  one  talked  of  anything  but 
Adeline  and  her  poetry.  Every  evening  at 
sunset  she  disappeared,  and  a  little  later  all 
the  girls  would  follow  very  quietly  and  look 
at  her  from  a  distance,  as  she  stood  bathed  in 
166 


Adeline  Thurston,  Poetess 

the  sun's  dying  rays.  Adeline  always  had 
her  head  back  and  her  arms  out  and  her 
lips  parted.  I  didn't  go  after  the  first  time. 
Once  was  enough.  But  every  one  else  did, 
and  talked  and  talked  and  talked  till  I  was 
dreadfully  tired  of  it,  especially  as  I  was 
writing  a  chapter  at  the  time,  and  they 
used  to  interrupt  me,  which  they  never  did 
in  the  dear  old  days  that  are  no  more. 
Adeline's  room  was  in  a  corner  of  the  old 
wing,  and  its  one  window  looked  over  the 
river  and  distant  hills.  None  of  the  Sisters 
could  see  that  window  from  the  cloister, 
and  only  two  of  the  girls  could,  but  these 
two  said  a  light  burned  in  Adeline's  room 
all  night  long.  They  used  to  wake  up  and 
look  at  it,  and  tell  the  other  girls  the  next 
day.  And  every  morning  Adeline  would 
come  to  breakfast  as  pale  as  chalk  and  tired 
to  death,  and  pressing  her  hands  against 
her  heart  and  looking  inscrutable  when  any 
one  spoke  to  her.  Of  course  the  Sisters 
didn't  know  she  worked  nights,  or  they 
167 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

would  have  stopped  it.  She  told  Maudie 
she  knew  she  was  not  long  for  life,  so  she 
must  use  every  moment  and  finish  her  book 
of  poems  so  it  could  be  published  as  soon  as 
she  died.  Maudie  cried  when  she  told  me 
that.  She  said  it  seemed  so  sad.  I  did 
not  cry.  Neither  did  Mabel  Blossom.  She 
giggled.  Oh,  how  I  love  Mabel's  light- 
hearted  girlishness,  and  how  I  enjoy  her 
society!  I  wish  to  say  right  here  that  she 
is  the  most  congenial  friend  I  have  at  St. 
Catharine's. 

One  night  about  eleven  o'clock  I  was  toss 
ing  feverishly  on  my  couch,  and  thinking 
of  my  art  and  of  Adeline's  art,  and  won 
dering  why  the  girls  liked  poetry  so  much 
better  than  stories.  I  was  not  jealous;  I 
was  just  puzzled ;  and  no  plots  were  stirring 
in  me,  and  I  didn't  care.  I  made  a  discov 
ery,  too.  I  learned  that  the  artist's  art  is 
not  enough  to  fill  life.  You  need  other 
things.  You  write  your  books  for  the  good 
of  the  world  and  to  make  it  happy.  And  if 
168 


Adeline   Thurston,   Poetess 

the  world  won't  read  them  or  listen  to  them, 
it's  no  fun  to  write  them.  Then  I  felt 
dreadfully  homesick  and  very  wretched, 
and  I  wanted  to  go  home  to  mamma  and 
my  sister  Grace  and  Georgie. 

Just  then  I  heard  a  stealthy  step  at  my 
portal,  and  then  the  door  began  to  open 
very  quietly.  I  was  so  unhappy  that  if  it 
was  burglars  I  didn't  care,  but  I  sat  up  in 
bed  and  looked,  and  it  was  Mabel  Blossom, 
in  her  night-gown  with  a  bath-robe  over  it. 
She  said : 

" May,  are  you  awake?  Don't  be  fright 
ened,  but  get  up  and  come  with  me.  I've 
got  something  to  show  you.  Don't  ask  any 
questions,  but  hurry." 

So  I  got  up  and  slipped  into  the  kimono 
Grace  gave  me  Christmas.  It's  silk,  and 
dark  red  and  blue,  and  it  has  flowing  sleeves, 
and  Mabel  and  Maudie  say  it's  very  becom 
ing  to  me.  And  I  went  trustfully  out  into 
the  dark  hall  with  my  dear  friend  Mabel, 
though  I  hadn't  the  least  idea  what  she  was 
169 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

going  to  do.  We  stole  along  hand-in-hand 
till  we  came  to  the  door  of  Adeline  Thurs- 
ton's  room.  Then  Mabel  stopped  and  very 
softly  and  coolly  opened  it  and  signed  to 
me  to  look  in.  I  did.  I  thought  maybe 
Adeline  expected  us,  but,  alas !  alas !  she  did 
not.  She  was  in  bed,  all  undressed,  sound 
asleep,  and  breathing  long,  even  breaths. 
And  right  near  the  window,  burning  its  very 
best,  was  a  little  lamp,  shining  out  into  the 
night  the  way  the  widow's  lamp  does  when 
she  puts  it  into  the  window  for  her  wander 
ing  sailor  son.  We  both  looked  good  and 
hard,  and  we  looked  and  looked,  but  there 
was  no  mistake.  Adeline  was  in  bed  and 
sleeping,  and  the  lamp  was  put  there  so  those 
two  girls  who  could  see  it  would  see  it  and 
think  she  was  working.  Mabel  and  I  crept 
back  to  my  room  in  silence,  and  then  I  said 
perhaps  Adeline  had  worked  and  had  just 
fallen  into  an  exhausted  slumber,  and  would 
soon  awake  and  get  up.  Mabel  giggled 
and  said  Adeline  had  been  in  the  same  kind 
170 


Adeline  Thurston,   Poetess 

of  an  exhausted  slumber  the  night  before 
when  she  had  looked.  And  she  giggled 
again  and  told  me  to  go  to  bed,  and  that 
she  would  convince  me  yet.  That  was  about 
eleven  o'clock.  Would  you  believe  it — 
three  hours  later,  at  two,  Mabel  came  again 
and  we  did  the  same  thing,  and  we  saw  the 
same  picture — the  faithful  lamp,  put  where 
it  would  do  the  most  good,  and  the  slum 
bering  poet. 

In  the  mean  time  I  had  been  thinking  it 
all  over.  I  was  so  excited  I  couldn't  sleep 
much,  and  the  second  time  we  saw  it  I  told 
Mabel  that  it  must  be  a  secret  between  us, 
and  that  we  must  never,  never  tell.  I  said 
it  would  be  dreadful  for  the  school  to  have 
such  a  thing  come  out.  Then  Mabel  looked 
at  me  and  asked  if  it  was  right  to  have  the 
girls  fooled  like  that.  But  I  knew  we  must 
be  just,  for,  after  all,  Adeline  did  write  the 
poems,  and  it  was  not  our  affair  when  she 
did  it,  and  of  course  we  had  no  right  in  her 
bedroom.  We  had  spied  on  her,  and  it  was 
171 


May   Iverson — Her   Book 

dishonorable.  I  felt  dreadfully  about  that, 
for  a  distinguished  officer's  daughter  must 
have  what  Sister  Irmingarde  calls  "a  high 
standard  of  personal  honor."  So  I  con 
vinced  Mabel,  and  she  promised  not  to  tell 
any  one.  Then  she  went  right  straight  to 
Maudie  Joyce's  room  and  woke  her  and 
led  her  to  Adeline's  room,  just  as  she  had 
led  me,  and  let  her  see  with  her  own  eyes. 
I  did  not  know  that  till  the  next  day.  Then 
Mabel  explained  that  shenhad  not  told  Maudie 
anything ;  she  had  just  let  her  see  for  herself. 
At  breakfast,  when  none  of  the  Sisters 
was  near,  Mabel  asked  Adeline  quite  care 
lessly  if  she  had  worked  the  night  before. 
Adeline  was  rolling  her  eyes  and  pressing 
her  head  and  looking  exhausted  the  way 
she  always  did  in  the  morning.  She  said  at 
once  that  she  had  not  "slept  a  wink"  the 
night  before,  as  she  was  "engaged  on  an 
important  piece  of  work."  And  then,  for 
the  first  time,  she  said  to  us  all  what  she 
had  told  Maudie  Joyce  so  often. 
172 


Adeline  Thurston,  Poetess 

"  I  shall  not  inhabit  this  frail  body  long," 
she  sighed,  "so  I  must  use  every  moment, 
day  and  night."  Maudie  Joyce  looked  at 
her  when  she  said  this,  and  I  saw  the  look. 
I  knew  right  off  that  either  Mabel  Blossom 
had  told  or  Maudie  had  discovered  for  her 
self  the  shameful,  blighting  truth. 

That  evening  Maudie  Joyce  came  to  my 
room  and  kissed  me  the  minute  I  opened 
the  door.  Then  she  cried  and  said  she 
had  treated  me  shamefully,  and  asked  if  I 
hated  her ;  and  I  said  I  didn't — that  I  loved 
her  next  to  mamma  and  papa  and  Grace 
and  Georgie  and  Jack  and  Mabel  Blossom. 
It  didn't  seem  to  cheer  her  very  much, 
though,  but  she  went  on  to  tell  me  some 
thing  that  made  me  gasp  and  sit  down  in 
a  hurry,  I  can  tell  you.  She  said  that  after 
breakfast  she  had  gone  right  to  Adeline 
Thurston's  room  and  asked  her  why  she  de 
ceived  us  so,  and  Adeline  cried  and  confessed 
that  she  had  made  up  the  whole  thing  be 
cause  she  wanted  to  be  admired  and  popular ! 


May  Iverson — Her  Book 

Then  Maudie  Joyce  rose  in  her  just  and 
queenly  wrath  and  paced  the  floor  with 
swift  footsteps  as  she  told  me  what  hap 
pened  next.  "I  told  her  she  could  either 
confess  to  the  girls  and  let  us  forget  and 
begin  all  over,"  Maudie  said,  "or  that  I 
would  tell  them  myself,  and  she  would  be 
left  in  Outer  Darkness  the  rest  of  the  year. 
So  she  said  she  would  confess.  She  is  doing 
it  now.  I  didn't  want  to  listen  to  it  all 
again,  and  somehow  I  knew  you  wouldn't 
have  gone  to  hear  it,  either.  You're  a 
trump,  May  Iverson." 

Oh,  how  my  heart  swelled  as  I  listened 
to  those  last  sweet  words !  And  right  then 
I  made  another  discovery.  Of  course  one 
loves  one's  parents  and  sister  and  brother 
and  little  nephew  and  Mabel  Blossom,  but 
there  is  something  different  about  the  love 
you  feel  for  a  girl  like  Maudie  Joyce.  It's 
so  vast,  so  intense,  so  all-absorbing!  But 
I  didn't  tell  Maudie  so.  I  just  kissed  her 
and  said  it  was  all  right  and  she  was  a  dear 
174 


Adeline  Thurston,  Poetess 

thing.  Alas!  how  insufficient  are  mere 
words  to  convey  the  deepest  emotions  of  the 
human  heart! 

It  is  strange,  but  the  very  minute  that 
matter  was  settled  I  began  to  feel  queer — 
broody  and  intense  and  absent-minded, 
and  full  of  strange,  sad  thoughts  about  life. 
Sister  Irmingarde  looked  worried  last  night 
and  asked  if  I  wasn't  under  some  nervous 
strain,  but  it  wasn't  that.  It's  another 
chapter  coming! 


VII 
First   Aid   to  Kittie  James 

SPRING  was  approaching  St. 
Catharine's  with  flowery  foot 
steps.  The  overarching  sky 
was  blue,  and  daisies  sprink 
led  the  surrounding  meadows 
— or,  anyhow,  if  they  didn't,  we  knew  they 
would  soon,  so  I'll  just  say  they  did  be 
cause  it  sounds  so  well.  Literary  artists  are 
allowed  a  great  deal  of  poetic  license  in  writ 
ing  descriptions — even  Sister  Irmingarde  ad 
mits  that.  Therefore,  when  I'm  writing 
about  facts  I  keep  to  them,  but  when  I'm 
writing  about  Nature  I  improve  on  it  all 
I  can. 

The  great  convent  school  hummed  with 
our  glad,  young  voices,  and  any  one  who 
176 


First  Aid   to   Kittie  James 

came  there  to  visit  would  have  thought  we 
were  happy.  But,  alas !  alas !  we  were  not ! 
We  had  a  care — we  girls — the  carking  kind 
of  a  care  you  read  about  in  real  stories. 
Students  of  life  would  have  observed  this, 
but  not  the  thoughtless,  visiting  parent, 
who  never  sees  anything  but  her  own  child, 
anyhow,  and  just  comes  to  St.  Catharine's 
to  hear  Sister  Irmingarde  or  Reverend  Moth 
er  tell  her  how  bright  and  studious  her 
daughter  is.  We  have  all  too  many  such 
guests,  and  Mabel  Blossom  and  Maudie 
Joyce  and  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy  and  I  are 
tired  of  them.  We  never  allow  our  parents 
to  come.  It  is  not  good  for  them,  and  it  is 
not  good  for  us,  for  they  make  us  forget 
all  we  know,  besides  dropping  things  about 
how  difficult  it  is  to  manage  us  at  home. 
So  they  have  to  get  along  with  letters  and 
monthly  reports,  which  are,  indeed,  all  any 
reasonable  parent  should  demand.  And  if 
they  want  to  know  how  bright  we  are,  we 
can  tell  them  about  it  ourselves.  Of  course 
177 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

we  try  to  be  affectionate  and  dutiful  and 
considerate,  and  sometimes  we  write  to 
each  other's  parents  when  one  of  us  does 
anything  special.  Maudie  wrote  a  beautiful 
letter  to  mamma  the  first  time  Sister  Irmin- 
garde  read  some  of  my  book  aloud  to  the 
class,  and  Mabel  Blossom  wrote  to  Mabel 
Muriel  Murphy's  father  once  after  Mabel 
Muriel  had  improved  so  much.  Mr. 
Murphy  wrote  back.  He  said : 

"DEAR  MADAM, — Yours  of  the  i6th  inst.  re 
ceived  and  contents  noted.  My  wife  and  I  hope 
our  daughter  'ain't  improved  too  much.  We  think 
she  was  about  right  as  she  was. 

"  Your  obt.  servant, 

"JOHN  J.  MURPHY." 

Mabel  was  quite  discouraged,  for  Mabel 
Muriel  did  not  appreciate  her  noble  act, 
either,  and  said  something  about  people 
who  rushed  in  where  she  had  feared  to  tread. 
I  will  now  explain  that  all  these  facts,  in 
teresting  and  vital  though  they  are,  have 
nothing  to  do  with  this  story.  I  am  not 
178 


First  Aid  to   Kittie  James 

writing  about  parents  who  visit  their  chil 
dren  at  school,  though  I  could  write  some 
things  that  would  surprise  them  if  Sister 
Irmingarde  would  let  me,  for  I  have  studied 
them  all  with  keen,  observant  eyes  when 
they  little  knew  it.  But  I  wished  to  utter  a 
few  thoughtful  words  concerning  what  hap 
pens  when  they  come,  and  how  the  teachers 
have  to  ask  girls  all  the  easiest  questions 
when  their  mothers  are  in  the  class-room, 
and  this  seemed  the  best  place  to  do  it.  One 
of  my  literary  mottoes  is  as  follows :  When 
ever  you  think  of  a  good  thing  put  it  right 
down,  no  matter  where  it  comes.  I  will 
now  take  up  the  thread  of  this  narrative. 

We  were  unhappy.  Under  the  smiles 
that  curved  our  young  lips  lay  heavy  hearts. 
Spring  was  glad,  but  we  were  not.  I  will 
tell  why. 

Examinations  were  coming. 

It  is  very  queer  about  examinations.  I 
suppose  after  one  has  graduated,  and  gone 
out  into  the  big  world,  and  listened  to  the 
179 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

trumpet-calls  of  fame,  and  sat  on  its  pin 
nacle  awhile,  one  forgets  about  examina 
tions.  We  know  from  our  physiology  that 
the  sensibilities  are  dulled  in  age,  anyhow. 
But  when  you  are  only  fourteen  or  so,  as  we 
girls  are,  it  is  different.  Examinations  are 
the  most  important  things  in  the  whole 
wide  world,  and  we  lie  awake  at  night  and 
think  about  them,  and  we  know  we  are  not 
going  to  pass,  and  a  cold  perspiration  breaks 
out  all  over  us.  In  the  daytime  we  have 
headaches  and  our  hearts  act  queer,  and  we 
forget  all  the  things  we  thought  we  knew, 
and  we  make  up  our  minds  that  if  we  do 
fail  we  will  never,  never,  never  go  home 
to  bring  disgrace  on  our  dear  mothers  and 
bow  our  fathers'  white  hairs  with  sorrow 
to  the  grave.  Instead  of  going  home  we 
decide  that  we  will  stop  eating  and  pine 
away  and  die,  and  then  they'll  grieve  for  us 
all  their  lives  instead  of  sitting  and  looking 
at  us  with  sorrowful  reproach. 

Some  girls  have  all  these  symptoms  every 
180 


First  Aid   to   Kittie  James 

time,  and  others  just  have  some  of  them.  I 
had  a  few  during  this  glad  spring  of  which  I 
write,  but  I  did  not  feel  entirely  hopeless, 
for  I  was  pretty  sure  of  several  things, 
rhetoric  especially,  and  I  thought  perhaps 
I  could  cram  on  the  others  and  get  through. 
I  had  been  devoting  a  great  deal  of  time  to 
literature  and  the  study  of  life  and  human 
nature,  and  I  suppose  in  one  way  Mabel  and 
Maudie  and  Mabel  Munel  and  I  had  wasted 
many  golden  hours  of  our  youth  in  our  long 
talks  about  life  and  love  and  other  vital 
subjects.  Still  we  all  stood  well  in  our 
classes,  so  we  had  moments  of  hope.  But 
Kittie  James  had  every  symptom  I  have  so 
graphically  described.  You  remember  Kit- 
tie  James.  It  was  her  sister  Josephine  who 
married  Mr.  Morgan  after  Kittie  arranged 
matters  for  them. 

Well,  as  I  said,  Kittie  had  all  the  worst 
symptoms  I  have  mentioned  and  a  lot 
more.  She  got  so  she  could  not  eat,  and 
she  had  to  go  to  the  infirmary  every  morn- 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

ing  for  tonics,  and  they  gave  her  raw  eggs 
and  things,  but,  alas !  naught  did  any  good. 
The  beautiful  girl  was  pining  away  before 
our  anxious,  loving  eyes. 

What  I  am  going  to  say  now  may  hurt 
Kittie's  feelings  if  Sister  Irmingarde  reads 
this  aloud  to  the  class,  but  the  literary  art 
ist  must  write  of  Life  as  it  is,  when  it  isn't 
scenery,  so  I  will  say  kindly  but  truthfully 
that  Kittie  was  not  a  child  of  what  Sister 
Edna  would  call  "  exceptional  mental  pow 
ers."  She  was  a  dear  thing,  and  blond  and 
pretty  and  cunning,  and  you  could  cuddle 
her  just  like  a  little  kitten  if  you  wanted  to, 
and  you  'most  always  did — but  she  was  not 
bright.  Mabel  Blossom  used  to  say,  "  Let's 
go  to  Kittie's  room  to-night  and  rest  our 
intellects  after  the  arduous  strain  of  the 
day."  And  we  would,  and  it  always  did 
rest  them.  You  can  see  from  this  what 
kind  of  a  girl  Kittie  was.  When  we  talked 
about  Life  she  went  to  sleep,  and  woke  up  in 
time  for  the  "spread"  we  had  before  we 
182 


First   Aid  to   Kittie  James 

went  to  bed.  For  growing  girls  need  nour 
ishment,  and  Kittie  almost  always  had  jam 
and  pickles  and  things  in  her  room.  Some 
times  Kittie  would  be  studying  when  we 
got  there,  but  she  always  looked  so  glad 
and  relieved  to  see  us  that  it  was  really 
touching.  Then  we  would  settle  down 
cosily,  and  do  our  hair  new  ways,  and  talk 
and  reveal  the  innermost  recesses  of  our 
natures  to  each  other  the  way  we  usually 
did  when  we  were  together.  Sometimes 
Kittie  would  let  us  try  on  her  new  clothes. 
She  always  had  lots,  and  of  course  that 
was  interesting,  too,  though  we  try  to  keep 
our  mental  plane  above  such  worldly  follies. 
When  the  bell  rang  and  we  had  to  leave  we 
used  to  feel  sorry  sometimes  that  we  had 
taken  up  so  much  of  Kittie's  time,  but  she 
said  it  didn't  matter,  and  I  guess  it  didn't. 
She  said  she  hardly  ever  knew  what  was  in 
the  book,  anyhow,  and  that  all  the  time  she 
was  trying  to  read  she  was  thinking  of  Jo 
sephine  and  her  mother  and  father  and 'of 
183 


May  Iverson — Her  Book 

George,  and  the  fun  at  the  Country  Club, 
and  wishing  she  was  home.  She  got  dread 
fully  homesick  every  little  while,  and  es 
pecially  before  examinations.  She  said  all 
she  knew  at  school  she  learned  in  class,  and 
that  she  could  remember  things  when  peo 
ple  talked  about  them  and  recited  them 
but  not  when  she  got  them  from  printed 
pages.  This  was,  indeed,  strange  and  most 
different  from  me,  for  books  are  my  delight, 
and  I  can  recite  whole  paragraphs  where 
the  hero  crushes  her  to  his  breast — the 
heroine,  I  mean ;  not  Kittie  James.  It  isn't 
that  I  commit  it  to  memory,  either.  It's 
just  that  it  lingers  in  my  mind.  But  poor 
Kittie  could  not  remember  anything,  so  she 
was  worrying  dreadfully  about  the  examina 
tions,  and  eating  raw  eggs  and  writing  to  her 
mother  that  her  constitution  was  wrecked 
and  she'd  better  send  for  her  to  come  home 
while  there  was  yet  hope.  Mrs.  James  wasn't 
frightened,  though,  because  Kittie  always 
did  that  when  examinations  came  round. 
184 


First  Aid  to   Kittie  James 

When  Mabel  Blossom  and  Maudie  Joyce 
and  Mabel  Muriel  and  I  saw  how  Kittie  felt, 
we  were  very  sorry  we  had  taken  up  so  much 
of  her  time,  and  we  wanted  to  do  something ; 
but  we  couldn't  think  of  anything  that 
would  help  her  much.  Besides,  we  were 
beginning  to  "cram"  ourselves,  and  that 
took  most  of  our  time — though  this,  as  I 
pointed  out  to  the  others,  was  no  excuse  for 
deserting  a  dear  companion  in  distress. 
Finally  Mabel  Blossom  said  we  might  do 
something,  and  couldn't  we  divide  up  the 
labor,  and  this  gave  me  an  idea,  and  I  told 
Mabel  to  stop  right  off  so  I  could  express 
it.  It  is  surprising  how  the  ear  rebels  from 
frivolous  chatter  when  the  intellect  is  at 
work  on  a  problem.  That's  what  my 
brother  Jack  always  tells  me  when  he  is 
thinking  about  the  girl  he  is  going  to  marry 
and  I  want  to  talk  about  things  that  are 
important.  I  asked  Kittie  which  examina 
tions  she  was  most  afraid  of,  and  Kittie  said 
she  guessed  algebra,  history,  rhetoric,  phys- 
185 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

iology,  Latin,  and  constitution  would  be  the 
worst.  Then  Mabel  Blossom  giggled,  be 
cause  those  were  all  we  had;  but  I 
checked  the  frivolous  girl  with  a  reproving 
glance.  Kittie  was  hurt,  poor  child.  Then 
I  lifted  my  voice  and  told  them  in  measured 
tones  what  we  would  do. 

I  said  we  four — Mabel,  Maudie,  Mabel 
Muriel,  and  I — would  each  give  Kittie  pri 
vate  lessons  in  those  branches.  I  said  I 
would  teach  her  rhetoric  and  Latin,  and 
Mabel  Muriel  spoke  right  up  and  said  she 
would  take  history  (of  course,  because  Sis 
ter  Edna  teaches  that!),  and  Maudie  said 
she  would  teach  Kittie  physiology  and  alge 
bra,  and  Mabel  Blossom  said  she  would  take 
constitution,  and  "  it  would  have  no  secrets 
from  Kittie  by  the  time  she  got  through." 
Kittie  was  so  grateful  she  cried,  because  she 
said  it  would  be  such  fun  and  cheer  her  up 
so.  Then  we  went  into  executive  session 
and  planned  just  how  we  would  do  it.  The 
gentle  reader  will  forgive  me  if  I  say  mod- 
186 


First  Aid  to   Kittie  James 

estly  that  here  again  it  was  my  brain,  so 
artistic  yet  so  strangely  practical,  that 
worked  out  all  the  details.  The  others 
agreed,  of  course,  wisely  knowing  what  was 
best  for  them ;  and  then  Kittie  got  out  bis 
cuits  and  jars  of  jam  and  chocolate  and 
pickles  and  canned  salmon  and  cheese  and 
a  chafing-dish,  and  we  celebrated  the  rest 
of  the  evening,  for  of  course  it  was  not 
worth  while  to  begin  that  night. 

We  had  arranged  that  each  of  us  should 
give  Kittie  one  hour  a  day.  That  would 
make  four  hours  a  day  for  Kittie,  besides 
her  class  work,  and  she  began  to  look  scared 
right  off.  But  we  encouraged  her  by  tell 
ing  her  she  was  so  far  behind  she  couldn't 
succeed  with  any  less,  and  we  said  if  we 
were  willing,  she  ought  to  be.  So  Kittie 
sighed  and  looked  grateful  again. 

Before  I  left  I  told  Kittie  I  would  give 

her  rhetoric  and  Latin  every  morning  from 

half  after  five  to  half  after  six,  because  I 

hadn't   any   other   hour  to   spare,    and  it 

187 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

wouldn't  hurt  either  of  us  to  get  up  an 
hour  earlier  than  usual.  Mabel  Blossom 
said  she  would  give  her  the  recreation  hour 
immediately  after  the  noon  meal,  and  Mau- 
die  Joyce  said  she'd  come  to  her  from  eight 
to  nine  in  the  evening,  and  Mabel  Muriel 
said  she  would  coach  her  every  night  from 
nine  to  ten.  And  we  all  said  we'd  begin 
the  next  day,  because  there  was  only  a 
month  left  before  the  examinations  began 
and  much  must  be  accomplished.  Kittie 
looked  dreadfully  worried  and  not  very 
grateful,  but  of  course  she  couldn't  say 
anything,  and  after  she  had  eaten  some  of 
Maudie's  Welsh  rabbit  she  cheered  up. 

There  is  no  bell  at  half  after  five  in  the 
morning,  and  I  had  no  alarm  clock,  so  I 
had  to  set  my  mind  on  the  hour  the  way 
they  do  in  books,  but  it  didn't  work  very 
well.  I  woke  at  twelve  and  at  a  quarter  of 
one  and  at  half  after  two  and  at  three  and 
at  four.  Then  I  didn't  dare  to  go  to  sleep 
again,  for  when  we  parted  I  had  given  my 
188 


First  Aid   to   Kittie  James 

promise  to  Kittie  to  be  there  promptly  at 
half  after  five,  and  she  was  quite  grateful 
about  it,  because  she  had  just  eaten  the 
rabbit.  I  got  up  at  five  and  took  my  bath 
and  slipped  on  my  kimono — the  one  that's 
so  becoming,  Maudie  says — and  I  stole 
along  the  halls  to  Kittie's  room.  If  you 
have  ever  stolen  along  the  wide  halls  of  a 
great  convent  at  half  after  five  on  a  March 
morning  you  will  remember  that  it  is  not 
much  fun.  They  are  icy  cold  and  very 
dark,  with  little  blinks  of  light  very  far 
apart;  and  they  are  so  horribly, horribly 
still !  I  felt  very  noble,  but  kind  of  sorry  I 
had  promised  to  do  it  every  morning. 

When  I  got  to  Kittie's  room  she  was 
awake  and  quite  cross.  She  said  she  had 
been  awake  all  night  waiting  for  me  and 
that  she  didn't  feel  well.  I  thought  the 
best  thing  to  do  was  to  divert  her  mind,  so 
I  opened  the  rhetoric  right  off  and  started 
in.  I  love  rhetoric,  so  when  I  had  really 
begun  I  enjoyed  it,  but,  alas!  it  was  dif- 
189 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

ferent  with  Kittle.  You  can  believe  she 
learned  her  lesson  just  the  same.  I  told 
her  the  whole  of  the  first  three  chapters, 
and  then  I  made  her  tell  it  to  me,  and  I 
asked  questions,  and  kept  at  her  till  she 
knew  it  as  well  as  I  did,  for  I  was  very  stern. 
And  I  did  the  same  with  the  Latin.  When 
the  hour  was  up  we  were  both  tired  out, 
but,  as  I  remarked  to  Kittie,  it  was  a  worthy 
cause,  and  there  was  no  doubt  she  knew 
more  about  rhetoric  and  Latin  than  she 
had  ever  known  before.  Kittie  said  that 
was  true,  and  she  added,  eagerly,  that  she 
thought  she  knew  'most  all  there  was  now, 
and  could  learn  the  few  remaining  items 
by  herself,  but  I  checked  her  with  a  glance. 
A  general's  daughter  never  takes  her  hand 
from  the  plough  after  she  has  got  it  there. 
I  said  that  to  Mabel  Blossom  later  in  the 
day,  and  she  said  she  guessed  Kittie  was 
going  to  be  the  plough,  all  right. 

I  could  see  that  my  example  had  inspired 
Mabel,  for  she  hardly  gave  Kittie  time  to 
190 


WE     FED    KITTIE    JAMES    WITH     KNOWLEDGE 


First   Aid   to   Kittie  James 

eat  her  lunch  before  she  started  her  on  the 
constitution.  It  was  right  after  this,  I 
think,  that  Kittie  changed  her  mind  about 
its  being  fun.  When  Mabel  Muriel  and 
Maudie  saw  how  noble  we  had  been  a  look 
of  grim  determination  settled  on  their  brows, 
and  they  went  at  Kittie  that  night  and  fed 
her  with  history  and  algebra  the  way  folks 
feed  Strasburg  geese  to  fatten  their  livers. 
I  read  about  that  once,  and  it  is  very  inter 
esting.  You  take  very  rich  and  fattening 
food,  and  a  great  deal  of  it — but  perhaps 
I'd  better  not  tell  that  here,  because  it  is 
not  really  part  of  the  chapter,  and  I  might 
get  it  mixed  up  with  Kittie.  I  will  only  add 
that  the  people  who  feed  the  geese  keep  on 
feeding  and  feeding  them,  and  that  was,  in 
deed,  the  way  Maudie  and  Mabel  Muriel  and 
Mabel  Blossom  and  I  fed  Kittie  James  with 
knowledge.  We  are  all  very  conscientious 
girls,  and  we  did  it  thoroughly.  I  went 
right  to  bed  at  eight  o'clock  every  night,  I 
was  so  tired,  and  I  did  not  sleep  very  well, 
191 


May   Iverson — Her   Book 

for  of  course  I  remembered  I  would  have 
to  be  up  by  five  the  next  morning.  It  was 
a  troubled  slumber,  and  I  kept  thinking  it 
was  five  long  before  it  was.  When  I  got  to 
Kittie's  room  the  second  morning  at  half 
after  five,  she  gave  me  one  look  and  turned 
her  face  to  the  wall  and  sobbed.  She  said 
it  was  so  sweet  of  me  to  come,  and  she  had 
kind  of  thought  perhaps  I  wouldn't.  She 
little  knew  about  me  and  the  plough. 

Kittie  was  not  a  heroine.  Mabel  Blossom 
says  she  was  the  innocent  victim,  but  I 
thought  it  sounded  better  to  call  her  The 
Worthy  Cause,  so  we  did.  The  Worthy 
Cause  made  it  pretty  hard  for  us  sometimes. 
She  acted  queer  and  almost  ungrateful,  and 
she  telegraphed  for  her  family  to  send  for 
her,  but  they  didn't,  and  she  even  got  sick 
and  went  to  the  infirmary  for  two  days. 
But  as  soon  as  she  came  out  we  each  gave 
her  an  extra  half -hour — I  went  to  her  at 
five  in  the  morning  and  the  others  stayed 
later  at  night — till  the  lost  time  was  made 
192 


First  Aid   to   Kittle  James 

up.  Kittle  didn't  go  to  the  infirmary  again 
after  that,  for  she  saw  clearly  that  she  had 
no  time  to  be  ill,  as  we  pointed  out  to  her. 
She  really  did  get  thin  and  pale,  though, 
and  we  were  quite  worried  over  her;  but, 
of  course,  we  remembered  it  was  all  for  her 
good,  which  she  kept  forgetting,  so  we  re 
mained  firm.  Once  she  locked  her  door 
when  Maudie  and  Mabel  came,  but  they 
stayed  till  twelve  the  next  night  and  made 
that  up,  too — the  brave,  dauntless  souls! 

The  Sisters  did  not  know  anything  about 
all  this,  and  they  kept  wondering  what  was 
the  matter  with  Kittie.  They  thought,  I 
guess,  that  her  disposition  was  being  warped 
some  way,  but  it  was  only  that  she  was 
imbibing  knowledge.  Finally  Kittie  tele 
graphed  to  her  sister  Josephine,  and  Joseph 
ine  came  right  off  with  her  husband,  Mr. 
Morgan,  to  see  what  was  the  matter.  Kit- 
tie  told  them  all  about  it,  and  afterwards 
Maudie  Joyce  and  Mabel  Blossom  told  them 
all  about  it,  too,  and  for  some  strange  rea- 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

son  they  thought  it  was  funny,  and  George 
Morgan  laughed  till  his  sides  ached.  Jo 
sephine  did,  too,  but  not  so  much,  and  she 
kept  saying,  "  The  poor  child !' '  But  George 
advised  Kittie  very  earnestly  to  drink  all 
she  could  at  the  fountain  of  learning,  and 
take  it  up  as  fast  as  it  came  out,  because 
if  she  didn't  it  might  overflow  and  drown 
her.  Kittie  did  not  know  what  he  meant, 
and  neither  did  we — grown  men  and  wom 
en  say  such  silly  things  sometimes — but  it 
seemed  to  mean  that  she  was  to  go  right  on 
with  our  lessons,  because  they  didn't  take 
her  home  and  nothing  happened.  They 
did  send  her  a  lovely  box,  though,  with  a 
new  silk  waist  in  it,  and  a  whole  cold  tur 
key  and  a  big  cake  and  lots  of  pickles  and 
things;  but  it  was  not  very  comforting  to 
Kittie  because  she  didn't  have  time  to  eat 
it.  So  we  ate  most  of  it  for  her,  and  the 
things  were  very  good.  Mabel  Blossom 
wrote  to  George  and  told  him  they  were, 
and  how  we  had  enjoyed  them,  and  she 
194 


First  Aid  to   Kittie  James 

told  him  also  of  the  gratifying  progress  Kit- 
tie  was  making  in  her  studies.  She  knew 
that  would  please  him. 

It  was  true,  too.  I  never  saw  any  one 
improve  the  way  Kittie  James  did.  Of 
course  we  must  remember  that  she  had  the 
benefit  of  special  and  kind  of  expert  instruc 
tion,  because  each  of  us  was  teaching  her 
the  thing  we  liked  best,  and  we  all  enjoyed 
doing  it.  We  had  watched  the  methods  of 
our  teachers,  and  we  improved  them  where- 
ever  we  could.  Sister  Irmingarde  used  to 
let  us  talk  about  other  things  in  the  rhetoric 
class,  but  I  kept  Kittie  strictly  to  the  book, 
for  I  was  determined  she  should  pass  that 
examination.  You  see,  it  had  got  to  be  a 
vital  matter  with  us.  Each  girl  wanted 
Kittie  to  pass  in  her  branch,  anyhow — the 
one  she  was  teaching  her — and  I,  for  one, 
felt  it  would  be  a  disgrace  to  me  if  Kittie 
failed  in  rhetoric  and  Latin.  So  Kittie  was 
kept  right  at  the  kind  of  life  President 
Roosevelt  says  so  much  about,  the  stren- 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

uous  one,  and  when  she  complained  we  re 
minded  her  how  he  praised  such  living. 
By-and-by  Kittie  got  so  she  stopped  crying 
and  complaining,  and  just  took  her  knowl 
edge  the  way  you  take  medicine — because 
you  have  to.  But  long  before  that  she  had 
spoiled  whole  chapters  of  my  rhetoric,  and 
the  cover  too,  by  crying  on  them;  so  I  un 
derstood  what  Mabel  Blossom  meant,  when 
she  said,  one  day,  that  constitution  used  to 
be  the  driest  study  at  St.  Catharine's  and 
had  now  become  the  wettest. 

Thus  the  weary  month  passed  by,  and 
we  hadn't  a  single  good  time  in  it.  I  was 
so  tired  every  evening  that  I  continued  to 
go  to  bed  at  eight  o'clock,  and  Maudie  and 
Mabel  and  Mabel  Muriel  slept  as  long  as 
they  dared  in  the  morning  because  of  the 
late  hours  they  had  to  keep  at  night.  Fi 
nally  examinations  came. 

It  was  a  written  examination,  and  the 
first  subject  was  rhetoric.  We  had  a  morn 
ing  on  that,  from  nine  to  twelve,  and  we 
196 


First   Aid  to   Kittie  James 

were  given  a  list  of  ten  questions  to  an 
swer,  and  they  covered  the  whole  course  we 
had  taken.  Kittie  James  sat  just  across 
from  me,  and,  oh,  how  can  I,  young  and  in 
experienced  as  I  am,  find  words  to  tell  the 
joy  and  pride  that  filled  my  heart  when  I 
saw  the  child  writing  away  for  dear  life, 
with  a  smile  of  happiness  on  her  sweet  lips ! 
I  knew  she  knew  every  one  of  the  answers, 
for  I  did  myself,  and  we  had  gone  over 
them  again  and  again  together.  We  both 
finished  our  papers  at  eleven  o'clock,  an 
hour  before  the  others  did,  so  we  handed 
them  in  and  were  excused,  and  went  out  in 
the  hall  and  hugged  each  other  hard,  and 
Kittie  was  real  grateful  again — the  first 
time  she  had  been  for  weeks.  Then  we 
strolled  about  the  grounds  with  our  arms 
around  each  other,  and  we  went  all  over 
the  questions  and  our  answers  (you  can,  of 
course,  after  the  papers  have  been  handed 
in),  and  we  saw  that  we  were  all  right  and 
sure  to  pass,  so  we  sang  and  danced  in  our 

14  IQ7 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

girlish  joy.  When  the  other  girls  came 
out  they  looked  worried,  and  went  right  off 
to  study  history,  which  we  were  to  have  in 
the  afternoon.  They  didn't  say  much  to 
Kittie  and  me,  but  we  did  not  mind.  We 
were  too  happy. 

At  one  o'clock  we  were  in  our  seats  again 
for  the  examination  in  history,  and  each  of 
us  got  a  slip  with  ten  questions  written  out. 
I  will  admit  at  once,  as  I  strive  to  be  true 
to  life,  that  those  questions  worried  me 
dreadfully.  They  sounded  natural,  and  I 
knew  I  had  known  the  answers  once,  but, 
somehow,  I  couldn't  remember  them  now, 
and  I  felt  all  mixed  up.  So  I  chewed  my 
pen-holder  and  thought  and  thought.  Kit- 
tie  James  wrote  as  fast  as  she  could,  and 
every  now  and  then  she  looked  over  at  me 
and  nodded  and  smiled  the  way  she  did  in 
the  morning,  but  I  did  not  smile  back.  I 
was  too  busy.  So  at  last  she  caught  Mabel 
Muriel's  eye,  and  Mabel  Muriel  smiled  and 
nodded  and  wrote  fast  the  way  Kittie  was 
198 


First   Aid  to   Kittie  James 

doing ;  and  at  three  they  had  both  finished, 
and  they  handed  in  their  papers  and  got 
excused,  and  went  out  under  the  trees.  I 
could  see  them  through  a  window  near  me, 
and  they  were  laughing  and  hugging  each 
other.  It  made  me  feel  almost  bitter  to 
realize  how  thoughtless  some  girls  are  when 
their  dear  companions  are  in  trouble,  but  let 
us  hope  the  careless  children  did  not  know. 
The  next  morning  we  had  constitution, 
and  that  was  just  as  bad.  I  was  not  sure 
of  a  single  answer,  and  I  will  admit  right 
now  that  it  did  me  good  to  see  Mabel 
Muriel  Murphy  and  Maudie  Joyce  chewing 
their  pen-holders  the  way  I  was  doing.  They 
looked  worried  to  death.  But  Kittie  was 
writing  away  so  hard  you  could  have  heard 
her  pen  if  you  were  in  the  hall,  and  so  was 
Mabel  Blossom.  Mabel's  whole  face  shone 
the  way  it  does  when  she  is  interested,  and 
all  her  teeth  showed — both  rows — and  she 
beamed  on  Kittie  James,  and  their  pens 
scratched  away  together  like  a  duet.  They 
199 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

finished  at  eleven,  and  were  excused,  and 
went  out  into  the  grounds  and  sat  under  a 
tree  where  we  could  all  see  them,  and  they 
told  stories  and  laughed,  and  Kittie  held 
Mabel's  hand  every  minute.  Somehow, 
all  I  could  think  of  was  about  how  sharper 
than  a  serpent's  tooth  an  ungrateful  child 
is.  I  could  not  remember  much  of  the  con 
stitution,  but  of  course  I  did  my  best. 

In  the  afternoon  we  had  algebra,  and  I 
seemed  to  be  rusty  on  that,  too.  You  see, 
algebra  is  a  thing  you  can't  talk  about  in  a 
general  way  in  answer  to  questions,  and  that 
made  it  harder.  I  got  bluer  and  bluer  and 
bluer,  and  it  was  five  o'clock  when  I  handed 
in  my  paper  and  staggered  from  the  room. 
Sister  Irmingarde  let  me  have  the  extra 
hour,  and  she  let  Mabel  Blossom  have  it, 
and  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy,  too.  Kittie 
was  through  at  four,  and  so  was  Maudie 
Joyce.  They  went  off  together,  and  Kit- 
tie  patted  my  back  and  left  three  choco 
late  creams  on  my  desk,  but  they  did  not 
200 


First   Aid  to   Kittie  James 

help  much.  What  are  chocolate  creams 
when  the  heart  is  breaking  and  disgrace 
stares  one  in  the  face! 

That  night  I  locked  myself  in  my  room, 
and  I  studied  and  studied  the  subjects  that 
were  to  come  the  next  day.  I  was  afraid 
the  girls  might  come,  but  they  did  not. 
Kittie  and  Maudie  Joyce  were  making  a 
Welsh  rabbit,  and  the  other  girls  were 
studying  just  as  I  was.  They  told  me  so 
afterwards. 

The  next  morning  I  cheered  up  a  good 
deal,  for  the  examination  was  in  Latin, 
and  as  soon  as  I  read  the  questions  I  saw 
I  was  all  right.  So  then  I  remembered  to 
sit  properly  in  my  seat  and  keep  my  feat 
ures  smoothed  out,  which  I  had  forgotten 
about  for  two  days,  and  by  eleven  my  pa 
per  was  finished.  Kittie's  was,  too,  so  we 
went  out  together,  and  I  realized  that  she 
was  sweet  and  good  at  heart,  though  some 
times  a  thoughtless  child.  Just  as  I  closed 
the  door  I  looked  back  and  saw  all  too 

201 


May  Iverson— Her   Book 

plainly  that  despair  had  claimed  for  its 
very  own  my  dear  friends  Mabel  Blossom, 
Maudie  Joyce,  and  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy. 
It  was  sad  to  see  them  suffer,  so  Kittie  and 
I  sat  out  on  the  rustic  seat  where  they 
could  see  us  and  be  cheered  up  by  the  sight 
of  our  happiness.  And  we  laughed  a  great 
deal,  for  Kittie  is  very  entertaining  at 
times,  and  this  was  one  of  them. 

In  the  afternoon  we  had  physiology,  and 
I  got  nervous  again.  It  looked  as  if  Sister 
Irmingarde  had  taken  trouble  to  pick  out 
questions  we  never  heard  of.  I  was  pretty 
sure  of  two  or  three,  and  I  guessed  at  sev 
eral  more,  but  there  were  three  I  didn't 
even  try  to  answer.  I  chewed  my  pen 
holder  worse  than  ever,  till  there  wasn't 
much  left  of  it.  By-and-by  Sister  Irmin 
garde  came  to  my  seat  and  handed  me  a 
fresh  one.  She  smiled  as  she  did  it,  in  the 
sweetest  way,  and  her  eyes  showed  that 
she  was  sorry  for  me.  A  great  big  lump 
came  into  my  throat,  and  at  that  very 
202 


First  Aid   to   Kittie  James 

minute  Maudie  Joyce  and  Kittie  James 
handed  in  their  papers  and  left  the  room, 
and  sat  on  that  old  bench  where  we  could 
see  them.  I  took  out  my  handkerchief  and 
wiped  my  eyes.  I  couldn't  help  it.  Then 
I  remembered  that  a  general's  daughter 
must  be  brave,  and  that  moral  courage  is  as 
commendable  as  physical,  because  papa 
says  so,  and  I  straightened  up  and  wrote 
what  I  knew,  which  was  not  much,  I  can 
tell  you.  That  ended  the  examination, 
and  I  was  glad,  for,  however  it  was  going 
to  turn  out,  it  was  a  comfort  to  have  it  over. 
That  evening  Mabel  Blossom  and  Mabel 
Muriel  and  Maudie  all  came  to  see  me,  but 
we  didn't  say  much  about  the  examination. 
Mabel's  eyes  showed  that  she  had  been 
crying,  and  Mabel  Muriel  looked  pale  as 
death.  Maudie  was  very  silent  but  more 
queenly  than  ever.  She  said  she  had  al 
most  decided  to  go  home  at  once,  as  she 
had  a  kind  of  feeling  that  her  dear  mother 
needed  her.  Mabel  Muriel  broke  out  sud- 
203 


May  Iverson— Her   Book 

denly  and  said  she  had  disgraced  Sister 
Edna,  but  she  did  not  explain  her  enigmatic 
remark.  Finally  Mabel  Blossom  began  to 
cry  and  ran  from  the  room,  and  pretty  soon 
the  others  went,  too,  and  I  was  left  alone 
with  my  sad  thoughts. 

I  will  pass  over  the  next  few  days.  They 
haven't  anything  to  do  with  this  chapter. 
But  the  Monday  after  the  examination 
Sister  Irmingarde  addressed  the  class.  She 
said  the  examination  had  been  one  of  sur 
prises,  and  the  results  in  some  cases  "were 
unprecedented  in  the  history  of  St.  Cath 
arine's."  She  said  the  highest  class  aver 
age  had  been  won  by  a  student  whose  stand 
ing  hitherto  had  been  very  low,  and  other 
students  from  whom  much  had  been  expect 
ed  had  failed  ignominiously.  She  said  she 
would  read  the  standings  first  and  add  a  few 
words  of  comment.  Then  she  read  them. 

"The  first  and  best,"  she  said,  "is  Miss 
Katharine  James,  whose  record,  in  view  of 
her  past  work,  is  most  remarkable  and 
204 


First  Aid  to   Kittie  James 

highly  gratifying  to  us  all.  On  a  scale  of 
one  hundred,  Miss  James  secured  ninety- 
eight  in  rhetoric,  ninety-seven  in  Latin, 
ninety-seven  in  history,  ninety-six  in  con 
stitution,  ninety-six  in  physiology,  and 
ninety-two  in  algebra — giving  her  a  general 
average,  in  the  six  studies,  of  ninety-six  per 
cent.  This  average  has  never  before  been 
equalled  at  St.  Catharine's." 

Well,  before  I  knew  it  I  jumped  to  my 
feet  and  began  to  cheer,  for  I  forgot  all 
about  my  examination  for  a  minute,  and 
all  I  thought  of  was  how  well  Kittie  had 
done.  At  the  same  instant  Maudie  Joyce 
and  Mabel  Blossom  and  Mabel  Muriel  jump 
ed  up,  too,  and  all  the  other  girls  joined  in, 
and  eveiy  girl  was  on  her  feet,  and  there 
was  an  uproar  of  cheers  and  applause.  For 
a  minute  Kittie  looked  scared  to  death. 
Then  she  put  her  head  down  on  her  desk 
and  cried — hard.  Sister  Irmingarde  let  us 
yell  for  a  moment,  and  she  waited  with  that 
lovely  smile  of  hers.  Then  she  lifted  her 
205 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

hand,  and  a  hush  fell  right  off,  and  we  sat 
down.  I  tell  you  we  mind  her! 

"The  rest,"  she  said,  "is  not  so  pleasant, 
and  I  fear  it  will  disappoint  some  of  you." 

Then,  in  a  very  matter-of-fact  voice,  just 
as  if  it  was  not  a  tragedy  at  all,  she  read  out 
our  standings — Maudie's,  Mabel  Blossom's, 
Mabel  Muriel's,  and  mine,  and  this,  alas! 
alas !  alas !  is  what  they  were : 

Miss    Maude    Joyce : 

Rhetoric 52 

History 51 

Latin 56 

Constitution 56 

Algebra 98 

Physiology 95 

General  average,  68  per  cent. 

Miss  May  Iverson: 

Rhetoric 98 

Latin 94 

History 52 

Constitution 50 

Algebra 58 

Physiology 53 

General  average  67!  per  cent. 
206 


First   Aid  to   Kittie  James 

Miss  Mabel  Blossom: 

Constitution 99 

History 62 

Latin 63 

Algebra 59 

Physiology 61 

Rhetoric 60 

General  average,  67^  per  cent. 

Miss  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy: 

History 98 

Constitution 56 

Latin 54 

Algebra 65 

Physiology 61 

Rhetoric 60 

General  average,  65!  per  cent. 

The  lowest  general  average,  of  course,  on 
which  you  can  pass  the  examination  is 
seventy  per  cent.  None  of  us  had  reached 
it.  None  of  us  had  passed! 

You  could  have  heard  a  clothes-pin  drop. 
I  tried  to  keep  my  shoulders  straight  and 
my  head  up  while  I  was  listening  to  my 
standing,  but  it  was  hard  work,  and  I  did 
not  dare  to  look  at  my  dear,  dear  friends. 
207 


May  Iverson— Her   Book 

But  I  could  hear  Kittle  James  sobbing  all 
the  time.  Sister  Irmingarde  waited  a  mo 
ment,  and  then  she  spoke  again. 

"These  four  students,  among  our  best  in 
the  past,  as  you  all  know,  have  all  failed — 
two  in  four  and  two  in  five  studies  out  of 
six.  However"  —  and  she  paused  for  a 
very,  very  long  time,  /  thought — "  in  view  of 
circumstances  which  have  been  brought  to 
our  attention,  we  have  decided  to  give  these 
students  another  opportunity  to  pass  in 
these  branches,  if  the  class  approves." 

Then  she  went  on  to  explain  how  we  had 
helped  Kittie  James,  and  she  said,  with  her 
dear  little  smile,  "  You  will  admit  that  they 
did  it  thoroughly";  and  she  added  that 
"probably  unconsciously"  we  had  failed  to 
prepare  for  our  own  examination.  She 
pointed  out  that  each  of  us  had  passed  "  tri 
umphantly"  in  the  study  in  which  we  had 
coached  Kittie,  and  that  Maudie  and  I  pass 
ed  in  two  branches  because  we  had  coached 
her  in  two.  She  said  if  the  class  as  a  whole 
208 


First  Aid  to   Kittie  James 

felt  that  it  would  be  just  to  give  us  a  sup 
plementary  examination,  say  in  six  weeks, 
this  would  be  done.  Then  the  girls  cheered 
more  than  ever,  and  the  resolution  was  put 
and  carried  by  a  rising  vote.  I  felt  a  big 
lump  in  my  throat,  worse  than  during  the 
examination,  and  I  guess  the  others  did, 
too. 

Kittie  felt  dreadfully,  poor  dear.  She 
was  still  crying  when  she  stood  up  with  the 
rest.  Sister  Irmingarde  told  us  after 
wards  that  Kittie  had  told  her  all  about  us 
the  night  before,  when  Sister  congratulated 
her  on  her  splendid  record  and  wondered 
why  we  had  failed. 

Well,  we  all  felt  better  right  away.  The 
girls  were  lovely  to  us,  and  so  were  the  Sis 
ters,  though  they  seemed  to  be  tremen 
dously  amused  about  something  for  days 
and  days.  We  knew  we  could  pass  in  six 
weeks  if  we  studied,  and  I  will  mention, 
right  here,  that  we  did  study,  too,  and  we 
passed  in  the  eighties,  all  of  us, 
209 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

That  night  we  had  a  spread  and  a  beau 
tiful  time  to  celebrate  Kittie's  triumph,  but 
poor  Kittie  was  not  in  it.  She  was  in  the 
infirmary.  The  doctor  said  it  was  "nerv 
ous  exhaustion,  due  to  unaccustomed  and 
long-continued  mental  strain." 


VIII 
The    Voice    of  Truth 

NE  day  during  rhetoric  class 
Sister  Irmingarde  wrote  a 
sentence  on  the  board  and 
said  she  wished  us  girls  to 
think  about  it.  It  was  this : 
"  The  lives  of  great  failures  are  not  written." 
She  asked  us  what  we  thought  it  meant, 
so  we  discussed  it  earnestly  and,  I  trust  I 
need  not  add,  intelligently;  for,  as  I  have 
often  explained  to  the  gentle  readers,  we 
girls  at  St.  Catharine's  are  students  of  sin 
gularly  mature  minds  and  rare  intuition. 
But  all  the  time  the  others  were  talking  I 
was  thinking  how  interesting  it  would  be 
to  write  the  story  of  a  great  failure;  and 
then  suddenly  I  remembered  that  I  could, 

211 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

because  I  knew  one.  Well  indeed,  alas! 
can  I  write  of  a  great  failure,  for  I  was  it; 
and  as  most  of  the  other  chapters  are  cheer 
ful  and  end  well,  perhaps  the  gentle  reader 
will  not  mind  a  sad  one  for  a  change.  It  is 
not  going  to  be  easy  to  tell  this,  for  great 
failures  are  terrible  things,  and  the  people 
who  make  them  usually  feel  dreadful  and 
are  embittered  for  life ;  and  sometimes  they 
die  of  broken  hearts,  like  Horace  Greeley. 
No  wonder  they  don't  write  about  them. 
But  I  will  do  it  because  I  am  a  Literary- 
Artist,  and  because  truth  is  mighty  and 
must  prevail,  and  because,  after  all,  I  am 
only  fourteen,  and  no  one  but  Juliet  ever 
knew  everything  at  that  tender  age.  So  I 
will  pluck  my  quill  out  of  my  breast,  as  it 
were,  the  way  the  mother  pelican  does,  and 
I  will  write  this  dark  chronicle  of  a  brilliant 
young  life  and  how  it  clouded  up  all  of  a 
sudden. 

The  great  failure  was  my  paper.     I  had 
set  my  heart  on  it  and  my  young  ambitions 

212 


The  Voice  of  Truth 

— and  one  has  a  great  many  young  ambi 
tions  when  one  is  fourteen.  All  my  friends 
knew  I  was  the  editor,  so  they  subscribed, 
and  I  planned  to  send  a  copy  to  papa  every 
week,  with  my  name  at  the  top  of  the  edi 
torial  page.  The  name  of  the  paper  was 
The  Voice  of  Truth,  and  its  motto  was  Un 
compromising  Fearlessness.  The  girls  made 
it  "  the  official  organ  of  the  students  of  St. 
Catharine's  Academy,"  and  Mabel  Muriel 
Murphy's  father  told  Mabel  Muriel  he  would 
be  our  financial  adviser.  He  did  that  be 
cause  Mabel  Muriel  was  the  business  man 
ager.  It  was  very  convenient  for  her,  too, 
because  when  we  were  getting  it  ready,  and 
spending  lots  more  money  than  we  took  in, 
Mabel  Muriel  always  telegraphed  to  her 
father  and  he  sent  money  right  away;  and 
then  Mabel  Muriel's  books  showed  a  large 
profit.  You  can  see  what  a  good  business 
manager  she  was  and  how  clever  we  were 
to  think  of  a  financial  adviser  and  have  one. 
Mabel  Blossom  was  the  circulation  man- 
is  213 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

ager,  and  she  was  fine,  too.  She  made  all 
the  girls  subscribe,  because  she  told  them  if 
they  didn't  nothing  about  them  would  come 
out  in  The  Voice  of  Truth;  and  then  she 
started  a  Roll  of  Honor  and  a  Roll  of  Igno 
miny,  and  had  proofs  of  them  printed  and 
sent  them  around.  In  the  Roll  of  Honor 
she  printed  every  week  the  names  of  all  our 
friends  who  subscribed — the  fathers  and 
mothers  and  sisters  and  brothers  outside  of 
St.  Catharine's,  you  know;  and  in  the  Roll 
of  Ignominy  she  printed  the  names  of  our 
friends  who  ought  to  subscribe  and  didn't. 
It  was,  indeed,  interesting  to  see  how  they 
hurried  to  get  out  of  the  Roll  of  Ignominy, 
and  into  the  Roll  of  Honor.  Mabel  hardly 
ever  had  to  print  their  names  in  the  Roll  of 
Ignominy  more  than  once.  Mabel  Muriel 
Murphy's  father  laughed  about  that.  He 
said  it  was  "forcing"  circulation;  but  it 
wasn't.  It  was  just  an  effort  to  uplift  our 
dear  friends  and  do  them  good.  We  knew 
The  Voice  of  Truth  would  uplift  them,  and 
214 


The   Voice  of  Truth 

inspire  them  to  better,  nobler  lives,  as  soon 
as  they  began  to  read  it. 

Maudie  Joyce  was  the  managing  editor, 
and  I  was  the  editor-in-chief,  so  of  course  I 
took  charge  of  the  editorial  page,  which 
papa  has  always  said  is  the  backbone  of  a 
paper  and  by  it  the  journal  stands  or  falls. 
Papa  says,  too,  that  no  journal  can  live 
unless  it  instructs  the  masses.  So  I  made 
up  my  mind  that  The  Voice  of  Truth  should 
have  a  backbone  and  instruct  the  masses, 
and  be  a  kind  of  beacon  light  in  the  stormy 
sea  of  life,  the  way  a  light-house  is,  you  know. 

The  first  thing  I  did  was  to  study  all  the 
great  New  York  newspapers,  so  I  could  copy 
the  best  things  in  each  one  in  my  paper.  I 
gave  most  of  one  Saturday  to  it,  and  Maudie 
Joyce  helped.  After  we  had  read  them  all 
for  hours  and  hours  I  decided  I  liked  the 
Sun's  editorial  page  best  because  it  was  so 
bright  and  funny,  and,  besides,  I  knew  I 
could  write  editorials  just  like  it.  And  we 
agreed  we'd  have  "all  the  news  that  was  fit 
215 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

to  print,"  like  the  Times;  and  we  would  be 
dignified  and  scholarly  and  quarrel  with  all 
the  other  newspapers,  like  the  Evening  Post; 
and  we  would  have  beats,  like  the  Herald, 
and  the  weather  in  Paris,  because  that  would 
be  so  exciting.  And  I  thought  how  sur 
prised  and  proud  papa  would  be  when  he 
turned  in  disappointment  from  his  morning 
Tribune  and  found  the  news  he  wanted 
every  Saturday  in  his  Voice  of  Truth.  Then 
we  decided  we  would  attack  the  rich,  like 
the  World  and  Journal  do.  Mabel  Muriel 
Murphy's  father  was  the  only  very,  very 
rich  man  we  knew,  so  of  course  we  had  to 
attack  him,  and  we  did,  too,  fearlessly  and 
openly,  and  he  didn't  seem  to  like  it  when 
we  told  him.  But  Mabel  Muriel  explained 
to  him  how  it  was  part  of  the  policy  of  the 
paper,  and  that  he  had  to  be  our  financial 
adviser  and  the  Soulless  Corporation  with 
its  Heel  on  the  Neck  of  the  Poor  besides. 
So  he  was,  and  we  gave  it  to  him  good  and 
hard  in  the  editorials  I  wrote, 
216 


The  Voice  of  Truth 

Then  we  wrote  to  all  the  great  papers, 
asking  them  to  exchange  with  us,  and  we 
wrote  to  the  President  and  members  of  the 
cabinet,  telling  them  to  give  us  all  the  news 
beats  before  they  gave  them  to  the  other 
papers.  That  was  Maudie  Joyce's  idea, 
and  it  was  fine,  too,  though  they  didn't  do 
it,  for  some  reason.  I  suppose  they  thought 
perhaps  we  didn't  "wield  enough  political 
influence."  Little  do  they  wot  that  my 
father  is  a  general  in  the  army.  I  was  glad 
to  remember  that,  for  I  thought  perhaps 
he  would  come  up  for  promotion  some  day, 
and  then  there  would  be  trouble  about  it, 
and  The  Voice  of  Truth  would  have  lots  of 
beats  and  lay  bare  the  innermost  recesses 
of  everybody's  heart. 

After  we  finished  our  letters  to  the  Presi 
dent  and  his  advisers  (we  asked  them  to  ad 
vise  us  before  they  did  him,  but  they  didn't 
do  that,  either) — well,  after  that  we  wrote 
to  all  the  girls  we  knew  in  different  cities, 
who  ^ised  to  be  at  St.  Catharine's,  and  we 
217 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

asked  them  to  be  special  correspondents  and 
send  us  everything  that  happened.  We 
said  they  must  be  truthful  and  fearless  and 
not  mind  whether  people  liked  what  they 
wrote.  The  news  came  first,  and  their  duty 
to  us  was  paramount.  Maudie  said  that. 
I  don't  know  what  it  means,  and  I  haven't 
time  to  find  out,  but  it  sounds  well.  I  hope 
it  doesn't  mean  anything  wrong.  We  told 
the  girls  we  would  pay  them  what  all  the 
New  York  newspapers  pay  their  corre 
spondents,  and  we  would  give  them  "  double 
rates  for  beats."  "Beats,"  you  know,  are 
stories  no  other"  paper  gets.  Mr.  Murphy 
suggested  that,  and  he  told  all  the  editors 
in  his  city  about  our  paper  and  how  his 
daughter  was  running  it.  I  had  to  correct 
this  sad  error  publicly  in  the  first  issue  of 
The  Voice  of  Truth,  for  of  course  Mabel 
Muriel  wasn't  running  it.  I  was.  Mr. 
Murphy  did  not  like  it  when  I  said  I  must 
write  a  correction,  and  he  was  quite  slow 
about  sending  checks  for  a  week  or  two,  so 
218 


The  Voice  of  Truth 

that  Mabel  Muriel  had  to  talk  to  him  very 
earnestly,  and  even  hint  that  perhaps  we 
wouldn't  let  him  be  financial  adviser  any 
more.  That  brought  him  round  in  a  hurry. 
We  knew  it  would. 

Of  course  all  this  time  the  paper  was  just 
' '  in  the  air, ' '  as  real  writers  say.  We  hadn'  t 
begun  to  write  for  it  or  print  it,  but  we 
thought  about  it  and  talked  about  it  a  great 
deal,  and  every  letter  we  opened  seemed  to 
be  full  of  money  for  subscriptions.  We 
charged  four  dollars  a  year,  because  that  is 
what  most  weekly  magazines  cost,  and  we 
knew  The  Voice  of  Truth  would  be  better 
than  the  magazines.  It  would  have  all  the 
news  and  "high -class  literary  features" 
besides.  I  was  sure  of  those,  because  I  in 
tended  to  write  them  myself. 

After  we  got  this  far  we  asked  permission 
to  go  to  the  nearest  town  for  the  day,  and 
the  Sisters  let  us  go,  with  one  of  the  gradu 
ates  to  look  after  us.  So,  of  course,  we  had 
to  tell  her  our  secret,  and  she  was  very  nice 
219 


May   Iverson — Her   Book 

about  it  and  quite  interested,  especially 
after  she  saw  the  big  roll  of  money  Mabel 
Muriel  Murphy  had  to  spend.  Some  of  it 
was  her  own,  and  some  her  father  had  given 
her,  and  the  rest  was  "annual  subscriptions 
payable  in  advance,"  the  way  they  all  are, 
you  know.  We  went  right  to  the  best 
printer  in  town — the  four  of  us,  Mabel  Blos 
som,  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy,  Maudie  Joyce, 
and  I,  with  the  graduate  hovering  modestly 
in  the  background  (she  didn't  put  on  any 
airs  over  us  or  call  us  children  that  day,  I 
can  tell  you!),  and  we  told  the  printer  what 
we  wanted.  He  didn't  seem  much  im 
pressed  at  first,  and  he  began  to  tell  us  how 
cheaply  we  could  get  up  a  little  "four-page 
folder."  He  seemed  to  think  we  had  only 
•a  few  pennies  to  spend.  But  by -and -by 
Mabel  Muriel  Murphy  took  her  big  roll  of 
money  out  of  her  pocket,  and  carelessly  let 
two  or  three  twenty -dollar  bills  fall  on  the 
floor,  and  picked  them  up  again  absently, 
as  if  it  didn't  matter;  and  I  wish  you  could 
220 


The   Voice   of  Truth 

have  seen  that  printer  sit  up  and  take 
notice,  the  way  babies  do  when  you  dangle 
watches  in  front  of  them.  His  eyes  were 
just  as  big  and  round  as  theirs,  too. 

He  began  to  bring  out  nice  sheets  of 
creamy,  thick  paper  for  samples,  and  he 
showed  us  different  kinds  of  type.  We  told 
him  we  would  use  very,  very  large  type 
when  we  had  "beats"  and  very  small  type 
the  rest  of  the  time,  because  we  wanted  to 
crowd  a  great  deal  of  news  into  our  paper. 
We  asked  him  to  get  an  artist  to  make  a 
nice  picture  for  the  top  of  the  first  page, 
with  an  angel  blowing  a  trumpet  on  one 
side  and  a  pole  for  wireless  telegraphy  at 
the  other  side,  and  Truth  flying  through 
the  air  and  hitting  the  pole.  We  didn't 
know  just  exactly  how  to  show  Truth,  but 
finally  Mabel  Blossom  said  we'd  better  make 
it  a  balloon  thing  coming  out  of  the  trumpet 
and  on  its  way  to  the  wireless  pole,  so  we 
did.  By  that  time  the  printer  was  very 
kind,  and  willing  and  eager  and  anxious  to 

221 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

please,  and  he  called  two  other  men  in  to 
help,  and  they  all  seemed  as  interested  as 
we  were.  One  of  them  said  he  knew  Mabel 
Muriel  Murphy's  father,  and  he  told  the 
printer  he  could  sell  Mabel  Muriel  the  shop 
on  credit  if  she  wanted  it,  but  Mabel  Muriel 
didn't.  She  engaged  him,  though,  to  do 
all  the  work,  and  he  said  all  we  had  to  do 
was  to  bring  in  the  "copy"  and  he  would 
attend  to  the  rest.  Then  we  decided  on 
the  size  and  the  paper  and  the  number  of 
pages.  The  printer  thought  we  ought  not 
to  have  more  than  eight  to  begin  with,  and 
he  pointed  out  that  it  would  be  a  serious 
mistake  to  give  people  more  than  their 
money's  worth.  We  saw  that,  too,  right 
away.  Then  he  showed  us  the  big  machine, 
like  an  enormous  type-writer,  that  would 
"set"  all  our  "copy";  and  first  I  thought 
I'd  better  come  down  and  learn  to  set  it 
myself  to  avoid  errors,  but  the  printer  did 
not  agree  with  me.  He  said  that  editors 
rarely  did  that  now  "in  the  large  centres," 

222 


The   Voice  of  Truth 

and  finally  I  saw  that  it  would  probably 
take  a  good  deal  of  time,  so  I  gave  it  up. 
Thus  do  we  live  and  learn. 

We  were  with  the  printer  hours  before 
everything  was  settled,  and  the  graduate 
was  quite  nervous  about  getting  back  to 
St.  Catharine's  so  late,  but  our  consciences 
were  at  peace,  for  we  knew  we  had  done 
well.  All  we  had  to  do  after  that  was  to 
write  the  paper  and  telegraph  to  our  cor 
respondents  to  rush  their  news,  the  way 
real  editors  do.  While  we  were  in  town 
we  sent  telegrams  to  all  of  them  to  send 
their  beats  for  next  week's  paper,  and  in  a 
day  or  two  they  began  to  come  in. 

Then  things  got  exciting.  Maudie  almost 
lost  her  head,  for  she  was  the  managing 
editor  and  had  to  see  to  lots  of  things,  and 
Mabel  Muriel  couldn't  help  her  much  be 
cause  she  was  persuading  people  to  adver 
tise.  She  was  clever  about  it,  too.  She 
got  lots  of  the  girls  to  advertise  for  things 
the  other  girls  had  borrowed  from  them 
223 


May  Iverson — Her  Book 

and  had  not  returned.    The  advertisements 
were  like  this: 

If  Kittie  James  will  kindly  return  the  chafing- 
dish  she  borrowed  from  Adeline  Thurston  two 
weeks  ago,  she  will  be  more  lady-like. 

Adeline  only  had  to  pay  twenty-five  cents 
for  that,  and  she  got  her  chafing-dish  back 
the  first  morning  The  Voice  of  Truth  came 
out,  so  we  saw  that  it  did  pay  to  advertise, 
though  Kittie  didn't  speak  to  Adeline  for 
days  and  days  afterwards.  Mabel  Muriel 
got  the  merchants  to  advertise,  too,  and 
she  had  a  new  idea  about  them  that  worked 
beautifully.  Right  below  their  advertise 
ment  of  anything  she  printed  the  name  of 
some  girl  who  had  tried  the  thing  and  knew 
it  was  good.  This  way,  you  know: 

JAMES  J.  WEBSTER 

HABERDASHER  286  FRONT  STREET 

EASTER  HATS  A  SPECIALTY 
'  Maudie  Joyce  Got  Hers  There ! 


Mr.  Webster  liked  that  very  much  when 
224 


The   Voice  of   Truth 

Mabel  Muriel  showed  him  the  proofs,  and  he 
wanted  us  to  print  a  picture  of  Maudie  in 
the  hat,  but  she  wouldn't  let  us.  We  were 
fearless  with  the  advertisers,  too,  though, 
and  told  the  truth  about  them.  One  man's 
advertisement  was  printed  like  this,  and  he 
was  so  angry  when  he  saw  the  proof  that 
he  took  it  right  out  and  wanted  his  money 
back.  It  said: 

WILLIAM  SMITHERS,  FLORIST 
CUT    FLOWERS    AND    POTTED    PLANTS 

Him.     They  Are  Not  Always  Fresh 
Mabel  Blossom  Got  Stale  Ones 
There  Last  Week.c 


So  you  see  they  were  often  unreasonable 
and  hard  to  please;  but  we  expected  these 
slight  annoyances  in  the  beginning,  so  we 
were  not  surprised.  However,  I  am  ahead 
again.  It  is  so  hard  to  remember  that  when 
the  time  comes  to  tell  anything  you  must 
wait  till  another  time,  the  way  Henry 
James  does.  The  paper  wasn't  really  out 
yet.  I've  just  absently  told  you  some  of 
225 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

the  things  we  did  before  it  came  out.  And 
in  the  mean  time  our  work  on  it  was  a  great 
secret  from  the  Sisters,  for  we  knew  if  we 
told  them  they  would  want  to  help  us  and 
see  all  the  articles,  and  we  wanted  the  credit 
ourselves. 

As  I  said  before,  the  copy  from  our  cor 
respondents  in  the  "large  centres"  began  to 
come  in,  and  it  was  fine.  Jennie  Farrelly 
lives  in  New  York,  so  she  wrote  a  beautiful 
piece  about  what  "Parsifal"  meant,  and 
how  long  the  kiss  was.  She  timed  it  with 
her  watch ;  and  it  was  a  beat,  for  no  other 
paper  had  that.  We  sent  Jennie  "double 
rates."  Mamie  Chester  lives  in  Chicago, 
and  she  knew  a  girl  who  was  in  the  Iroquois 
Theatre  fire  last  winter,  so  Mamie  inter 
viewed  her  (she  wasn't  dead)  and  wrote  a 
thrilling  description.  That  was  a  beat,  too, 
because  that  particular  girl  had  never  talk 
ed  to  reporters  before.  Our  Philadelphia 
correspondent  wrote  a  lovely  piece  about 
Ethel  Barrymore  at  home,  and  we  were  all 
226 


The   Voice  of   Truth 

so  interested;  for  we  saw  her  in  "Cousin 
Kate,"  and  she  was  just  sweet,  besides  il 
lustrating  the  tragic  truth  that  girls  who 
don't  marry  are  terribly  lonesome  when 
they  get  to  be  old.  But  the  very  best  news 
of  all  came  from  Nettie  Upson,  in  Spring 
field,  Massachusetts.  Nettie's  mother  has  a 
Japanese  butler,  and  he  told  Nettie  all  about 
the  war  with  Russia,  and  how  much  braver 
the  Japanese  are,  and  how  sometime  Japan 
and  America  will  clasp  hands  across  the 
sea  like  brothers  and  go  down  the  ages  to 
gether  and  fight  all  the  other  nations  of  the 
earth  and  civilize  them.  It  was  beautiful, 
and  Nettie  wrote  it  all  so  thrillingly  that 
Maudie  Joyce  cried  when  she  read  it.  I 
guess  there  are  not  many  correspondents 
who  can  make  their  managing  editors  shed 
scalding  tears  over  their  papers. 

But  the  gentle  reader  must  not  suppose 

that  I  was  idle  while  my  dear  friends  and 

colleagues  were  thus  active.     No.     I  was  at 

work — on  the  editorial  page — and  I  wrote 

227 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

every  word  of  it  myself,  after  a  careful  study 
of  the  Sun's  style.  First,  of  course,  I  said 
things  about  President  Roosevelt,  pretend 
ing  to  pat  him  on  the  back,  but  really  show 
ing  how  he  had  failed  this  nation  in  its 
darkest  hours  of  need.  (I  like  him  myself, 
and  so  does  papa,  but  of  course  I  had  to  be 
fearless.)  Next  I  wrote  a  funny  little  poem 
and  said  a  man  in  Schenectady  did  it,  and 
after  that  I  made  up  some  queer  names 
people  might  have,  and  I  printed  them. 
Then  I  wrote  the  Paris  weather,  like  the 
Herald  does,  and  I  told  about  the  Soulless 
Corporation  with  its  Heel  on  the  Neck  of 
the  Poor,  the  way  the  Journal  does,  and  I 
explained  that  it  was  Mr.  Murphy.  I  told 
how  he  ground  down  his  employees  on 
starving  wages,  while  his  daughter  lived  in 
luxury  and  had  more  pocket-money  than 
any  other  girl  at  St.  Catharine's. 

That  inspired  me — you  know  how  it  is 
when  you  get  started — so  I  wrote  another 
editorial,  and  said  that  The  Voice  of  Truth 
228 


The   Voice  of  Truth 

would  constantly  and  fearlessly  expose 
wrong  wherever  it  was,  and  that  it  would 
hold  up  the  faults  of  the  girls  at  St.  Cath 
arine's  for  their  good.  I  said  how  rare  are 
the  friends  who  will  tell  one  the  truth  about 
one's  self,  and  they  don't  last  long,  anyhow ; 
and  I  said  The  Voice  of  Truth  would  be  such 
a  friend  to  the  students  and  would  turn  its 
X-rays  on  the  evil  in  all  their  hearts.  Then 
I  went  on  to  tell  the  girls  what  was  the 
matter  with  them.  Even  my  dear  friends 
should  not  be  spared,  I  said,  so  I  began 
with  Maudie  Joyce,  and  advised  her  not  to 
be  queenly  so  much  or  have  so  many  airs, 
and  I  said  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy  was  im 
proving  but  still  had  much  to  learn,  and 
that  Mabel  Blossom  was  lazy. 

Mabel  came  in  while  I  was  writing  this, 
so  I  read  it  to  her,  and  she  was  not  pleased 
the  least  little  bit.  But  after  I  reasoned 
with  her  she  saw  it  had  to  be,  so  she  said  I 
could  print  it  if  I  would  let  her  write  an 
editorial  about  me.  At  first  I  didn't  want 
16  229 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

her  to.  There  were  enough,  I  thought,  and 
it  didn't  seem  modest  for  the  editor-in-chief 
to  be  on  the  page  that  way.  But  Mabel 
talked  and  talked,  so  finally  I  gave  in  and 
she  went  off  to  write  it.  I  wish  you  could 
have  seen  it  when  she  brought  it  back. 
What  I  had  said  was  kind  and  friendly  and 
loving,  but  what  Mabel  Blossom  said  about 
me — her  dear  friend — was  dreadful.  She 
said  that  I  had  "started  out  to  be  a  pretty 
good  sort"  (Mabel  has  not  a  polished  liter 
ary  style),  but  that  literature  had  been 
"too  much"  for  me.  And  she  said  I  was 
conceited  and  had  no  sense  of  humor,  and 
that  I  took  myself  too  seriously,  and  that 
Maudie  Joyce  and  Mabel  Muriel  thought 
so,  too.  She  said  other  things,  too,  that  I 
will  not  repeat.  I  had  to  put  them  in  the 
paper,  because  I  promised  to;  but  I  don't 
have  to  put  them  here,  and  I  won't. 

My   young   heart   sank   as   I   read   my 
friend's  editorial,  but  what  could  I  do  ?    So 
I  put  it  in  the  page,  under  the  heading 
230 


The   Voice   of  Truth 

Mabel  wrote,  "Is  There  Hope  for  May  Iver- 
son?"  and  right  above  it  was  my  name  as 
editor-in-chief.  Was  that  right  or  fair?  I 
pause  for  a  reply,  as  real  writers  say. 

When  I  wrote  the  editorial  about  Mabel 
Blossom's  faults  I  had  forgotten  some  of 
them,  but  now  I  remembered  more;  so  I 
wrote  them  right  in  for  the  child's  good, 
and  when  I  showed  it  to  her  she  couldn't 
say  a  word,  for  they  were  all  true,  and  right 
well  did  Mabel  Blossom  know  it.  That  fill 
ed  up  most  of  what  was  left  of  the  editorial 
page,  so  I  just  dropped  in  a  few  more 
thoughts,  and  then  I  sent  the  copy  to  the 
printer,  which  I  had  to  do,  of  course,  before 
it  could  be  published  in  the  paper.  After 
that  I  rested — and  I  needed  to. 

The  Voice  of  Truth  came  out  the  next 
Saturday.  Across  the  top  of  the  front 
page  was  our  picture  of  the  angel  and  the 
trumpet  and  the  wireless  pole,  but  the  ar 
tist  had  forgotten  the  balloon  thing,  which 
was  Truth.  However,  I  guess  it  looked 
231 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

better  his  way.  It  was  very  pretty.  In 
the  first  column  was  the  article  on  "  Parsi 
fal,"  and  next  to  that  was  "Ethel  Barry- 
more  at  Home,"  and  beside  that  was  the 
"  Iroquois  Fire."  Then  you  had  to  turn 
the  page,  and  you  came  right  to  my  edi 
torials.  They  looked  beautiful.  The  print 
er  had  used  big  type  with  lots  of  white  be 
tween  to  fill  the  page,  and  the  eager  eye 
of  the  reader  could  fall  on  the  alluring 
titles.  "Greeting — and  Our  Aims"  was 
one.  "His  Workmen  Cry  for  Bread" — 
that  was  about  Mr.  Murphy.  "Ignoble 
Faults  in  Lovely  Natures"  was  about  the 
girls,  you  know.  "Showing  His  Teeth" 
was  the  one  about  the  President,  and  then 
there  were  the  poems  and  the  weather  and 
the  rest.  And  of  course  the  one  about  me, 
which  I  trust  I  need  not  mention  again. 

The  next  page  had  Mabel's  Roll  of  Honor 

and  Roll  of  Ignominy,  because  she  said  they 

were  very  important  and  must  come  near 

the  front  of  the  paper.     After  that  we  had 

232 


The   Voice   of   Trut'h 

advertisements  and  "Academy  Notes" — a 
whole  page  of  those — and  "Advice  to  the 
Faculty,"  by  Mabel  Blossom.  She  wrote 
the  headlines  herself,  and  the  second  one 
was  "An  Eloquent  Plea  for  Less  Studies 
and  More  Fun,  by  a  Brilliant  but  Over 
worked  Student."  And  she  says  I  am  con 
ceited  ! 

Well,  I  haven't  time  to  tell  about  all  the 
rest.  There  was  a  love-story  by  Maudie 
Joyce,  a  beautiful  one  where  they  don't  see 
each  other  for  sixty  years  and  then  are  re 
united,  and  die  smiling  in  each  other's  arms. 
I  cried  quarts  over  it!  Adeline  Thurston 
had  a  poem,  of  course ;  and  we  printed  one 
of  Kittie  James's  compositions  to  encourage 
her  in  her  studies.  Besides,  we  needed 
something  to  fill  the  page.  And  that  was 
about  all,  I  think,  but  we  explained  that 
we  would  have  more  next  week  when  the 
President  and  cabinet  officers  began  to  send 
us  beats. 

One  of  the  girls  put  a  copy  on  Sister 
233 


May   Iverson — Her   Book 

Irmingarde's  desk,  to  surprise  her — and  I 
think  it  did.  For  while  we  were  all  read 
ing  the  paper  together  and  talking  it  over, 
and  before  we  had  time  to  mail  any  copies 
to  subscribers,  I  saw  something  black  com 
ing  along  the  hall,  and  first  I  thought  it  was 
a  cloud,  and  then  I  saw  it  was  Sister  Irmin- 
garde.  So  did  the  others.  We  all  looked 
at  each  other,  and  somehow  in  that  very 
moment  I  began  to  feel  queer,  and  to  won 
der  whether  the  paper  was  so  good,  after 
all,  and  to  think  perhaps  we  had  made 
some  mistakes.  The  girls  did,  too.  They 
told  me  so  afterwards.  When  Sister  Ir- 
mingarde  reached  us  we  all  stood  up,  of 
course,  and  we  saw  that  she  had  The  Voice 
of  Truth  in  her  hand  and  that  her  face  was 
very  white.  She  tapped  the  cover  of  the 
paper  with  her  finger,  and  when  she  spoke 
her  voice  sounded  queer. 

"  Have  any  copies  of  this  gone  out  of  the 
building?"  she  asked. 

We  said,  "No,  not  yet,"  and  her  face 
234 


The   Voice   of  Truth 

changed  right  away,  and  she  wiped  her 
forehead  as  if  she  felt  warm,  though  it  was 
a  cold  day.  Then  she  looked  at  us  again 
in  an  odd  way,  and  when  she  spoke  she 
seemed  to  be  speaking  to  herself,  not  to  us. 

"You  haven't  the  remotest  conception, 
evidently,  of  what  you've  done,"  she  said, 
very  slowly.  "So  I  suppose  we  must  try- 
to  remember  that,  after  all,  you  are  mere 
babies!" 

We  did  not  know  what  she  meant  by 
those  enigmatic  words,  and  she  never  told 
us.  But  At  was,  indeed,  easy  to  see  she 
didn't  like  The  Voice  of  Truth.  She  made 
us  promise  to  destroy  every  copy  and  never 
to  do  anything  of  the  kind  again  without 
consulting  her.  And  she  seemed  to  think 
we  were  so  terribly  young!  That  worried 
us  most  of  all.  Perhaps  we  are  babies  and 
don't  know  it. 

But  one  thing  is  sure.  No  baby  could  pay 
the  bills  that  printer  sent  Mabel  Muriel. 
Mabel  Muriel  couldn't,  either.  They  made 
235 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

her  hair  stand  right  straight  up.  But  she 
telegraphed  to  our  financial  adviser,  and  he 
came  to  St.  Catharine's  and  advised  us  to 
pay  the  bills;  and  then  he  did  pay  them. 
So  you  see  he  was  quite  useful,  and  maybe 
it  uplifted  him,  too.  For  I  am  'most  sure 
that  during  one  morning,  at  least,  while  he 
was  examining  all  our  bills  and  writing  out 
checks  to  pay  them,  he  was  too  busy  to  be 
a  Soulless  Corporation  with  its  Heel  on  the 
Neck  of  the  Poor! 


IX 


"The   Play's   the  Thing" 

T  was  several  months  after 
we  published  (and  suppress 
ed)  our  paper,  The  Voice  of 
Truth,  before  we  began  to 
write  our  play.  One  reason 
was  that  we  were  tired,  and  another  was 
that  Sister  Irmingarde  always  looked  so 
worried  when  she  saw  us  with  a  pen  in  our 
innocent  hands  that  it  interfered  dread 
fully  with  our  plots.  Mabel  Blossom  said, 
one  day,  that  every  time  Sister  Irmingarde 
met  her  and  a  virgin  sheet  of  paper  in  the 
same  room  she  turned  pale  and  asked  anx 
iously  what  Mabel  was  going  to  do.  And  it 
was  just  the  same  with  the  rest  of  us.  Of 
course,  no  literary  talent  could  develop  in  an 
237 


May  Iverson— Her   Book 

atmosphere  like  that,  and  I  pointed  this  out 
to  Sister  Irmingarde  very  politely.  But 
she  said  it  was  the  "consensus  of  opinion" 
among  the  faculty  that  it  would  be  well, 
indeed,  if  the  literary  talent  at  St.  Cath 
arine's  lay  dormant  for  a  while.  After  that 
there  didn't  seem  anything  left  for  me  to 
say.  I  just  brooded  and  brooded,  as  artists 
always  do  when  they  are  not  appreciated; 
and  so  did  Mabel  Blossom  and  Maudie 
Joyce.  But  finally  we  remembered  about 
Milton  and  Pope,  and  how  publishers  re 
fused  Vanity  Fair,  and  we  felt  better. 
For,  after  all,  one  failure  should  not  destroy 
a  whole  life — or  several  whole  lives ;  and,  as 
Maudie  pointed  out,  because  we  couldn't 
publish  a  paper  was  no  sign  we  couldn't 
write  a  play.  For  a  while,  though,  sad 
memories  of  The  Voice  of  Truth  seemed  to 
prevent  our  thinking  of  new  things ;  but  the 
delay  was  not  serious,  for  of  course  our 
talents  were  really  ripening  the  whole 
time. 

238 


"The   Play's   the   Thing" 

Our  brains  are  very  active,  as  I  have  ex 
plained  before,  and  pretty  soon  we  got  rest 
less.  All  we  had  been  doing  was  to  learn 
our  lessons  and  recite  them,  and  practise 
doing  up  our  hair  new  ways ;  and  these  oc 
cupations,  while  praiseworthy,  do  not  long 
satisfy  the  souls  of  girls  of  fourteen  with 
mature  minds  and  ardent  natures  like  ours. 
One  night  Maudie  Joyce  said  she  was  sick 
of  it — of  the  quiet  life  we  were  living,  she 
meant.  She  said  she  had  been  thinking  it 
all  out,  and  she  had  decided  that  minds  were 
like  bodies,  and  they  needed  to  be  exercised 
and  to  have  something  to  work  on,  the  way 
you  give  baby  things  to  bite  when  it  is  hav 
ing  teeth.  I  said  right  off  that  our  first 
duty  was  to  our  minds,  and  if  Maudie 
thought  they  were  in  a  sluggish  state,  like 
livers,  we  must  do  something  at  once  to 
stir  them  up,  and  the  best  thing  to  do  was 
to  begin  our  play.  So  we  called  Mabel 
Muriel  Murphy  and  Mabel  Blossom  in  (we 
were  in  Maudie' s  room)  and  told  them  our 
239 


May  Iverson— Her   Book 

momentous  decision.  Mabel  Muriel  said 
first  she  thought  we  ought  to  tell  Sister 
Edna  or  Sister  Irmingarde,  but  Maudie  and 
I  had  a  strange  feeling  that  if  we  did  there 
wouldn't  be  any  play  or  our  minds  wouldn't 
work  well;  so  we  talked  Mabel  Muriel  out 
of  that  in  a  hurry.  We  said  we  would 
write  the  play  first,  just  we  four  girls,  and 
we  would  have  only  four  characters  in  it, 
because  then  we  could  act  it  all  ourselves. 
If  it  were  good  we  would  tell  Sister  Irmin 
garde  about  it  as  a  pleasant  surprise  and 
let  her  read  it ;  and  perhaps  later  we  would 
have  a  special  performance  for  the  Sisters 
and  show  them  how  the  stage  could  be 
elevated  and  uplifted,  Maudie  said.  So 
Mabel  Muriel  agreed  (Mabel  Blossom  had 
agreed  at  once,  because  she  said  her  mind 
needed  something  to  bite  on,  too),  and  then 
we  began  to  talk  about  the  play. 

First  of  all  we  agreed  that  instead  of  writ 
ing  a  brand-new  play  we  would  take  an  old 
one,  or  two  or  three  old  ones,  and  write 
240 


"l    WAS    JULIET    AND    MAL'DIE    ROMEO  " 


"The   Play's  the   Thing" 

them  over.  That  would  be  easier,  you  see. 
Maudie  said  she  thought  it  would  be  a  good 
idea  for  each  girl  to  write  her  own  part — 
the  character  she  was  to  be,  you  know.  So 
I  suggested  that  I  would  be  Juliet,  and 
write  a  part  like  hers,  where  the  lovely  girl 
is  only  fourteen,  and  has  drunk  the  cup  of 
life  to  its  dregs,  and  dies  in  the  last  act. 
Maudie  said  in  that  case  she  would  be 
Romeo,  and  rewrite  all  his  part  and  make 
it  stronger.  We  were  both  so  delighted  we 
stopped  and  hugged  each  other,  and  did 
not  observe,  alas!  that  dark  clouds  were 
lowering  on  the  brows  of  our  dear  friends 
Mabel  Blossom  and  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy. 
Mabel  Muriel  spoke  right  up  and  told  us 
she  wanted  to  play  a  part  like  Cleopatra, 
and  die  with  an  asp  on  her  breast,  and  she 
said  she  knew  she  could  write  a  lovely  part 
carrying  out  all  her  own  ideas.  She  said 
she  would  make  Cleopatra  love  Julius  Cassar 
with  a  love  that  knew  no  death,  and  spurn 
Mark  Antony  coldly — because  she,  Mabel 
241 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

Muriel,  had  never  liked  Mark  Antony  very 
much,  anyhow.  Almost  before  she  got 
through,  and  ere  our  tongues  could  find  fit 
ting  words  to  point  out  the  poor  child's 
errors,  Mabel  Blossom  struck  in,  and  said 
that  for  her  part  she  was  going  to  be  like 
Laura,  in  "The  Pit,"  for  she  wanted  her 
character  to  be  right  up  to  date  and  in 
Chicago. 

Then  there  was  a  heavy  silence,  as  real 
writers  say;  for  though  Maudie's  mind  and 
mine  are  so  mature  and  quick,  we  could  not 
grasp  at  once  just  how  all  these  different 
persons  could  be  put  into  the  same  play  and 
made  "convincing,"  as  Sister  Edna  is  always 
saying.  I  remarked  thoughtfully  that  I 
didn't  see  how  it  could  be  done,  because 
there  wouldn't  be  enough  men  in  the  play ; 
and  Mabel  answered  very  quickly  that  it 
didn't  matter,  for  Laura,  in  "  The  Pit,"  never 
saw  anything  of  her  husband,  anyway,  so 
he  needn't  be  on  the  stage.  She  would  just 
sit  around,  she  said,  and  wait  for  him  and 
242 


"The   Play's   the   Thing" 

mourn.  I  couldn't  see  why  Mabel  wanted 
to  play  such  a  silly  part  as  Laura,  so  I  asked 
her;  and  she  confessed  that  it  was  because 
she  had  a  strange  foreboding  that  when  she 
was  married  her  husband  wouldn't  come 
home  much,  either,  and  she  wanted  to  see 
how  it  would  feel!  She  said  she  would 
probably  live  in  Chicago,  and  Chicago  men 
didn't  go  home  very  often.  Maudie  Joyce 
sniffed  at  that,  so  you  can  imagine  how 
disgusted  she  was,  for  she  doesn't  usually 
do  such  things.  Mabel  didn't  look  hurt  at 
all.  She  went  on  to  say  that  if  she  played 
Laura,  Kittie  James  could  play  the  husband 
or  the  Wheat  Pit — the  place  where  Laura's 
husband  spent  all  his  time — and  then  she 
could  have  her  name  on  the  programme 
and  wouldn't  have  to  come  on  the  stage  at 
all.  Mabel  said  it  would  be  a  lovely  part  for 
Kittie  and  please  her  very  much.  Maudie 
and  I  did  not  think  these  ideas  were  very 
good,  so  we  just  sat  still  and  looked  tired 
and  resigned. 

243 


May  Iverson— Her   Book 

Finally  I  asked  Mabel  Muriel  if  she 
wouldn't  give  up  Cleopatra  and  the  asp 
and  be  something  modern.  Then  perhaps 
she  and  Mabel  could  be  doing  "The  Pit" 
on  one  side  of  the  stage  while  Maudie  and  I 
did  "Romeo  and  Juliet"  on  the  other. 

But  Mabel  Muriel  said  no;  and  then  she 
asked  why  she  couldn't  do  "Cleopatra"  in 
the  middle  of  the  stage  while  we  and  Mabel 
had  the  two  ends.  Maudie  said  that  would 
be  like  three  rings  at  a  circus.  Then  we  all 
giggled  and  felt  a  little  better,  and  "the 
nervous  strain  of  the  moment  perceptibly 
relaxed,"  as  the  newspapers  say. 

After  we  stopped  laughing  Mabel  Muriel 
remarked  very  seriously  that  she  didn't  see 
why  it  shouldn't  be  something  like  that, 
after  all.  We  could  each  have  our  scenes, 
but  not  all  at  once,  of  course.  The  first 
act  could  be  "Romeo  and  Juliet,"  and  the 
second  act  Laura,  in  "The  Pit,"  and  the 
third  act  the  "Death  of  Cleopatra."  And 
she  said  we  could  lay  the  whole  thing  in  the 
244 


"The   Play's   the  Thing" 

present  time,  and  write  sentences  that  would 
connect  the  acts  and  make  them  seem  like 
one  plot.  She  said  she  could  have  Cleo 
patra  kill  herself  because  she  could  not 
bear  to  see  the  happiness  of  Romeo  and 
Juliet  and  of  Laura  and  her  husband  after 
he  began  to  stay  home  more.  She  added 
that  she  didn't  care  why  Cleopatra  killed 
herself,  so  long  as  she  did  it  and  used  the 
asp.  Mabel  Muriel's  mind  just  lingered 
and  lingered  on  that  asp.  It  seemed  to 
have  some  strange,  terrible  fascination  for 
her.  She  said  she  was  perfectly  sure  her 
father  would  buy  her  a  beautiful  costume 
to  wear  as  Cleopatra,  with  lots  of  jewelled 
girdles — because,  of  course,  they  were  the 
most  important  things.  Then  Mabel  Blos 
som  said  that  the  plan  would  suit  her,  so 
Maudie  and  I  had  to  agree,  but  we  did 
not  like  it.  We  thought  it  did  not  seem 
very  logical. 

Maudie  said  each  girl  would  have  to 
write  her  own  part  just  as  soon  as  she  could. 

17  245 


May   Iverson — Her   Book 

When  they  were  all  finished  we  would  go 
over  them  together  and  make  them  join  if 
possible.  But  Maudie  looked  worried  and 
I  felt  the  same  way.  Then  we  went  to 
our  own  rooms  to  go  to  work,  for  of  course 
we  did  not  want  to  begin  where  Sister  Ir- 
mingarde  would  see  us  and  look  scared  and 
remind  us  of  the  tragic  past  and  interfere 
with  the  flow  of  our  ideas. 

As  soon  as  I  began  to  write  Juliet's  part 
I  saw  that  I  could  not  do  it  any  better  than 
Shakespeare  did,  for  he  knew  the  girlish 
heart,  and  there  is,  indeed,  little  he  forgot 
to  mention.  So  all  I  did  was  to  put  in  more 
love  and  explain  more  about  Juliet's  clothes. 
And  I  had  Romeo  stay  on  the  balcony  all 
the  time  instead  of  going  in,  which  was,  of 
course,  against  the  rules  of  etiquette.  A 
few  days  later  Maudie  told  me  that  she  had 
done  about  the  same  thing  with  Romeo. 
She  had  made  him  more  affectionate,  but 
she  did  not  change  his  lines  much;  and  she 
agreed  with  me  that  it  was  more  polite  for 
246 


"The   Play's   the   Thing" 

him  to  talk  to  Juliet  outside  when  he  called 
so  late.  So  you  see  our  work  was  soon 
done;  but,  alas!  it  was  different  with  our 
gifted  young  friends,  Mabel  Blossom  and 
Mabel  Muriel  Murphy. 

Mabel  Blossom  saw,  as  soon  as  she  began 
to  write  Laura's  part,  that,  after  all,  Laura 
wasn't  on  the  stage  so  very  much.  It  was 
her  husband  most  of  the  time,  and  you  felt 
sorry  for  his  poor  wife  at  home,  so  your 
mind  was  full  of  her  and  you  thought  she 
was  important.  Mabel  had  to  write  pages 
and  pages  of  lines  for  Laura  to  speak,  tell 
ing  how  lonely  she  felt  as  she  sat  at  home 
and  how  heartrending  were  the  sufferings 
of  a  neglected  wife.  Mabel  said  before  she 
got  through  with  Laura  she  knew  so  much 
about  how  wives  feel  when  they  are  left 
alone  that  she  decided  she  would  never, 
never  marry.  She  could  not  run  the  risk. 
She  wrote  that  to  a  nice  boy  she  knew  at 
home  (she  writes  to  him  quite  often,  be 
cause  he  is  her  cousin),  and  he  got  very 
247 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

much  excited  and  wrote  back  that  she  must 
remember  there  were  men  with  souls  above 
the  dollar  and  that  he  was  "one  such." 
Mabel  showed  me  the  letter;  but  I  should 
not  have  mentioned  it  here,  because  it  is 
not  a  part  of  the  story.  Besides,  it  is 
Mabel's  secret,  deep  in  her  heart,  and  she 
says  no  one  must  know ;  so  I  hope  the  gen 
tle  reader  will  hurry  and  forget  it.  Perhaps 
I  should  take  it  out,  but  when  I  began  my 
Artistic  Career  I  started  by  taking  out 
everything  I  was  not  sure  of,  and  'most  al 
ways  when  I  got  through  there  wasn't  any 
thing  left. 

To  resume  our  narrative,  as  Hawthorne 
says,  Mabel  had  a  dreadfully  hard  time. 
Laura  didn't  do  a  single  thing  but  sit  on 
chairs  and  talk,  and  the  whole  act  Mabel 
wrote  was  so  dull  that  she  asked  if  she 
couldn't  have  Adeline  Thurston  stand  be 
hind  the  scenes  all  the  time  and  yell,  "  Give 
a  dollar  for  May  wheat,"  the  way  the  hus 
band  did  in  the  book.  Maudie  and  I  said 
248 


"The   Play's   the   Thing" 

yes,  and  that  gave  Adeline  a  place  for  her 
name  on  our  play -bill.     It  read : 

A  VOICE ADELINE  THURSTON 

But  poor  Adeline  got  so  hoarse  from  re 
hearsing  that  the  night  we  really  gave  the 
play  in  Maudie's  room  she  couldn't  speak. 
There  was  no  Voice,  after  all,  and  Mabel 
Blossom  was  dreadfully  disappointed. 

All  this  time  the  experience  of  our  dear 
Mabel  Muriel  was  going  on,  and  it  was 
'most  as  bad.  You  see,  she  had  to  write 
Cleopatra  all  over,  so  she  could  dearly  love 
Julius  Caesar  and  despise  Mark  Antony. 
Besides,  she  had  to  lay  the  scene  in  Chicago 
at  the  present  time,  and  that  made  it 
even  harder,  of  course.  Mabel  Muriel 
looked  quite  pale  and  worn  before  she  got 
through.  We  were,  indeed,  sorry  for  her, 
Maudie  and  I,  for  she  had  a  dreadful  time 
about  the  asp  also,  and  couldn't  find  one. 
When  Mabel  Blossom  giggled  one  day  and 
suggested  to  her  to  let  Adeline  Thurston 
249 


May  Iverson — Her    Book 

be  the  asp  as  well  as  the  Voice,  Mabel 
Muriel  was  so  annoyed  by  her  girlish  fri 
volity  that  she  didn't  speak  to  Mabel  for 
a  whole  day.  We  were  all  a  little  ner 
vous  by  that  time.  At  last  Mabel  Muriel 
found  a  small  rubber  snake,  the  kind  they 
have  in  toy-shops,  and  it  made  a  lovely  asp 
and  wriggled  in  the  most  natural  way.  So 
she  felt  lots  better.  But  that  caused  more 
trouble,  for  the  asp  made  Maudie  Joyce  so 
sick  she  couldn't  rehearse  on  the  same  stage 
with  Mabel  Muriel;  Maudie  is  dreadfully 
afraid  of  snakes,  and  even  of  little  worms. 
They  give  her  a  strange,  sinking  feeling. 
Finally  we  persuaded  Mabel  Muriel  not  to 
use  the  asp  till  the  real  play,  and  then 
Maudie  could  leave  the  room  before  she 
came  on — so  that  was  settled.  I  was  the 
stage-manager  by  this  time,  and  perhaps 
you  think  I  wasn't  busy  and  "  sorely  tried," 
like  those  in  affliction.  I  was. 

Of  course,  after  the  three  acts  were  writ 
ten  the  next  thing  to  do  was  to  make  them 
250 


"The   Play's   the   Thing" 

all  into  one  play.  I  will  say  here,  with  the 
deep  humility  the  truly  gifted  always  feel, 
that  I  don't  believe  any  one  but  us  could 
have  done  it.  Even  we  lay  awake  nights 
over  it!  Finally  we  did  it  this  way: 

The  first  scene  was  in  Chicago,  in  the  year 
1904,  and  Juliet  said: 

"Wilt  thou  be  gone?     It  is  not  yet  near  day. 
It  is  the  nightingale,  and  not  the  lark, 
That  pierced  the  fearful  hollow  of  thine  ear." 

Then  Romeo  had  to  reply,  of  course,  and 
that  gave  us  a  chance  to  show  that  the  play 
was  modern.  So  we  made  him  say: 

"It  was  the  lark,  the  herald  of  the  morn, 
And  this  will  be  indeed  a  busy  day. 
For  thrice  since  eve  has  price  of  wheat  gone 

down — 
And  I  must  be  within  the  stock  exchange  ere 

tolls  the  bell." 

You  see  how  well  that  brought  out  the 
idea  of  the  Chicago  rush,  and  got  the  au 
dience  ready  for  Mabel's  "  Pit,"  too.   Then, 
at  the  end,  when  Juliet  is  dying,  she  says : 
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May  Iverson — Her   Book 

"My  dismal  scene  I  needs  must  act  alone — 
But  poor  Cleopatra,  alas!  alack! 
Must  do  the  same  thing  later." 

Thus  the  girls — the  audience,  I  mean — 
knew  what  was  coming  and  didn't  feel  sur 
prised  when  the  curtain  rose  on  Cleopatra 
and  her  asp.  You  see,  it  was  not  really 
hard  to  do  after  you  had  thought  of  the 
right  way.  It  was  like  the  egg  that  Co 
lumbus  stood  on  end,  by  crushing  it,  when 
the  others  couldn't. 

We  didn't  bother  much  about  clothes 
while  we  were  writing  the  play.  But  when 
we  began  to  rehearse  we  saw  how  silly  Romeo 
looked  in  Maudie  Joyce's  golf -skirt,  so  she 
wore  her  heavy  travelling-ulster  during  that 
act,  and  a  little  steamer-cap  Kittie  James 
lent  her.  All  I  had  to  have  were  clinging, 
flowing  things  that  would  show  the  soft,  im 
mature  lines  of  my  youthful  figure — for  those 
are  the  kind  of  lines  everybody  says  Juliet 
had.  So  I  wore  my  silk  kimono,  and  Mau 
die  Joyce  tore  the  sleeve,  alas !  in  her  ardor. 
252 


"The   Play's   the  Thing" 

All  Mabel  Blossom  did  was  to  wear  her 
best  clothes,  for  Laura,  in  "The  Pit,"  had 
lots  of  money.  That  was  what  her  hus 
band  was  doing  all  the  time — getting  it. 
As  for  Mabel  Muriel,  her  father  sent  her  a 
box  of  Cleopatra  clothes  that  made  our 
eyes  bulge  out.  He  sent  clothes  for  five 
acts.  As  there  was  only  one  Cleopatra  act 
in  our  play,  Mabel  Muriel  had  to  leave  the 
stage  every  five  minutes  to  change  her 
dress.  It  spoiled  the  death  scene,  too,  for 
she  began  it  in  a  Nile-green  gown  and  came 
back  and  died  in  a  white  one,  because  the 
asp  showed  up  better  on  that — and,  be 
sides,  she  wanted  to  wear  all  the  dresses, 
so  her  dear  father  would  not  be  disappoint 
ed.  But  it  was  not  Art,  for  of  course 
Cleopatra  would  not  be  thinking  of  clothes 
in  those  last  sad  minutes,  even  though  she 
was,  indeed,  a  vain  and  sadly  frivolous 
woman  with  too  many  emotions. 

When  we  were  all  ready  we  invited  ten 
girls  to  Maudie's  room  to  see  the  play.  Kittie 
253 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

James  and  Adeline  Thurston  sat  in  the  front 
row,  which  was  a  trunk,  and  the  other  girls 
sat  where  they  could.  My,  but  they  were 
enthusiastic !  We  had  stuffed  the  door  and 
the  key-hole  and  put  black  curtains  over  the 
transom  and  windows  so  we  wouldn't  dis 
turb  any  one,  and  we  told  the  audience  they 
could  only  applaud  by  clapping  their  thumb 
nails  together.  But  they  did  that  till  they 
'most  wore  them  out,  and  when  Kittie  James 
saw  Cleopatra's  asp  she  fell  right  off  the 
trunk  in  her  surprise  and  interest.  She 
thought  it  was  a  real  one. 

Would  that  I  could  drop  the  curtain  now, 
as  we  dropped  it  before  our  happy  little 
band  that  night,  flushed  with  joy  and  tri 
umph.  But — alas,  alas!  Life  is,  indeed, 
full  of  bitterness,  and  who  are  we  that  we 
should  hope  to  escape  its  dregs?  We  had 
finished  our  play  and  were  all  talking  at 
once,  and  getting  ready  to  eat  the  spread 
Maudie  had  thoughtfully  provided  for  our 
fortunate  guests,  and  I  guess  perhaps  we 
254 


"The   Play's   the   Thing" 

forgot  to  be  quiet,  for  suddenly  there  was 
a  heavy  rap  upon  our  portal.  Then  a  voice 
— not  Adeline  Thurston's,  but  Sister  Edna's 
— said,  "Open  the  door!" 

For  a  second  not  one  of  us  breathed. 
Then,  without  a  sound,  Mabel  Muriel 
Murphy  got  flat  on  her  stomach  and  crawl 
ed  under  the  bed,  and  Mabel  Blossom,  Kit- 
tie  James,  Adeline  Thurston,  and  I  hurried 
ly  followed  her.  The  rest  would  fain  have 
accompanied  us,  but  only  five  can  hide  un 
der  one  bed  at  the  same  time,  so  Kittie 
kicked  out  to  show  them  there  was  no 
more  room.  Then  five  of  the  rest  crowded 
into  Maudie's  closet,  and  the  others  got 
under  the  divan.  All  this  time  Maudie  was 
gathering  up  the  stage  -  setting  and  the 
clothes  and  things,  and  she  threw  them  into 
a  corner  and  dropped  a  big  rug  on  top  of 
them.  Then  she  took  a  copy  of  Thomas  a 
Kempis  in  her  lily-white  hand,  and  opened 
the  door  and  tried  to  look  surprised  and 
delighted  to  see  Sister  Edna. 
255 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

Sister  Edna  came  right  in.  I  think,  from 
the  sound  of  her  footsteps,  that  she  was 
puzzled.  They  were  slow  and  hesitating, 
as  if  she  was  looking  around  and  expecting 
to  see  some  one,  but  of  course  she  didn't. 
It  wasn't  a  bit  comfortable  under  that  bed, 
with  Kittie  James's  foot  on  my  chest — for 
we  didn't  have  time  to  crawl  under  with 
the  same  ends  of  us  all  one  way ;  and  I  told 
Maudie  the  next  day  that  the  lay  Sister  who 
swept  her  room  had  left  lots  of  dust  under 
the  bed  just  where  my  nose  was. 

Sister  Edna  asked  Maudie  if  she  wasn't 
up  late,  and  Maudie  said  that  she  was,  but 
that  she  felt  the  need  of  rest  now  and 
would  go  to  bed  at  once.  It  wasn't  very 
polite,  of  course,  but  she  did  want  Sister 
Edna  to  leave  before  our  feet  showed !  But 
Sister  Edna  sat  right  down,  and  Maudie 
said  her  knees  gave  way  under  her  then,  so 
she  had  to  sit  down,  too.  In  her  excitement 
she  asked  Sister  if  she  couldn't  make  her  a 
cup  of  chocolate,  and  Sister  Edna  smiled 
256 


SISTER  ED.N'A  ASKED  MAUDIE  IF  SHE  WASN'T  UP 
LATE" 


"The   Play's   the   Thing" 

very  sweetly  and  declined,  but  Maudie  said 
she  looked  amused,  too.  There  was  a  heavy 
silence  for  a  moment,  and  suddenly  Sister 
Edna  said  it  was  not  pleasant  for  her  to  in 
trude,  but  was  Maudie  alone  ?  And  Maudie 
said  that  she  was  not,  but  wouldn't  Sister 
Edna  let  her  take  the  responsibility  for  all 
and  not  ask  the  names  of  her  friends  ? 

Of  course  we  could  not  have  that,  so  Mabel 
Blossom  and  Kittie  James  and  I  began  to 
emerge,  as  it  were — different  parts  of  us; 
stockings  first  in  some  cases  and  heads  in 
others.  But  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy  lay  un 
der  the  bed  still,  with  her  white  young  face 
against  the  wall,  for  it  was  indeed  bitter  to 
her  to  be  caught  in  this  position  by  her  be 
loved  Sister  Edna.  At  last  she  rolled  out, 
though,  very  dusty  and  red,  and  with  her 
hair  hanging  down  her  back  like  Mary  Mag 
dalen's.  She  was  wearing  her  white  robe, 
the  one  she  wore  when  Cleopatra  finally 
died,  and  she  had  her  nasty  little  rubber 
asp  in  her  hand,  because  Maudie  had  finally 
257 


May   Iverson — Her   Book 

got  used  to  it.  Sister  Edna  gave  her  one 
long  look  and  then  she  looked  at  the  rest  of 
us,  and  at  last  she  said,  quietly, 

"  I  suppose  I  may  infer  that  this  festivity 
will  now  end?" 

We  all  answered  very  earnestly  that  she 
might,  and  Maudie  added, 

"I  will  explain  everything  to  you  and 
Sister  Irmingarde  in  the  morning,  Sister, 
if  you  will  listen." 

Sister  Edna  bowed,  and  said  "Good 
night,"  and  went  away,  leaving  a  sad,  sad 
scene  of  buried  hopes  behind  her,  as  the 
gentle  reader  must  know. 

We  didn't  stop  to  talk  it  over.  We  just 
faded  away  to  our  own  rooms  like  the  Arab 
does  with  his  tent,  and  tossed  upon  our 
couches  till  the  glorious  orb  of  day  smiled 
in  upon  our  pallid  young  faces.  After  we 
had  our  baths  and  our  breakfasts  we  felt  a 
little  better,  and  we  went  to  Sister  Irmin 
garde  in  a  body  and  told  her  the  whole  story 
— except,  of  course,  we  didn't  mention  the 
258 


"The   Play's  the  Thing" 

girls  under  the  couch  and  in  the  closet.  We 
thought  it  was  useless  to  make  our  narra 
tive  even  sadder  than  it  was. 

Sister  Irmingarde  didn't  say  much.  We 
told  her  all  about  the  play  and  the  changes 
we  had  made,  and  two  or  three  times  she 
left  us  and  walked  to  the  window  and  stood 
with  her  back  to  us.  She  seemed  to  be 
nervous.  When  I  asked  her  if  she  would 
like  to  read  our  play,  she  hesitated  a  mo 
ment  and  then  said  no,  but  she  added 
words  that  made  our  young  hearts  swell. 
The  gentle  reader  may  not  believe  this, 
but  it  is  true,  and  I  will  put  it  in  a  para 
graph  all  by  itself  to  make  it  more  impor 
tant: 

Sister  Irmingarde  said  she  feared  that  if 
she  read  our  play  her  enjoyment  of  Shake 
speare  might  never  again  be  the  same! 

Those  were  indeed  her  words. 


X 


What   Dreams   May   Come 

(OMETIMES  when  the  day  is 
over  and  darkness  has  fallen, 
and  the  big,  bright  star  we 
always  look  for  is  shining 
above  the  cross  on  the  con 
vent  chapel,  Maudie  Joyce  and  Mabel  Blos 
som  and  I  sit  close  together  in  the  window- 
seat  of  my  room  and  have  long,  serious 
talks.  We  cannot  see  each  other's  faces 
very  well,  so  if  Mabel  laughs  we  do  not 
know  it;  but  I  think  she  does  not,  very 
much.  Even  her  frivolous  nature  seems 
to  be  sobered  then,  and  uplifted,  too,  as  well 
indeed  it  may  be,  by  the  beautiful  thoughts 
Maudie  and  I  express.  Often  Mabel  herself 
talks,  quietly  and  with  strange  insight  and 
260 


What   Dreams   May   Come 

intelligence  for  one  so  young — but  has  she 
not  associated  with  Maudie  and  me  for 
three  years?  Thus  we  reveal  our  inner 
most  hearts  to  each  other,  and  mention 
things  our  young  lips  might  hesitate  to  ut 
ter  in  the  garish  light  of  day,  as  real  writers 
say,  and  tell  what  we  are  going  to  do  in  the 
world  when  we  are  older  and  go  out  into  it 
and  begin  to  Live — really  live,  you  know,  and 
not  just  stand  around  and  absorb  knowl 
edge  the  way  we  do  now.  And  right  here 
I  will  express  an  important  thought  while 
I  think  of  it.  It  is  this : 

Everybody  seems  to  remember  that  peo 
ple  can  eat  too  much  and  drink  too  much 
and  sleep  too  much,  but,  alas!  none  of  our 
thoughtless  elders  realizes  that  the  school 
girl's  mind  should  not  be  crammed  too 
much,  and  that  something  dreadful  will 
occur  if  it  is.  So  they  keep  on  putting 
things  into  our  brains  and  adding  more  and 
more  until  no  one  could  tell  what  might  hap 
pen  to  us  if  we  had  not  learned  long  since 

18  261 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

to  hurry  and  forget  a  great  deal.  That 
saves  our  minds  and  leaves  us  room  for 
thoughts  that  we  really  have  to  think — 
and,  of  course,  a  very  important  thing  to 
think  about  is  the  big  world  that  lies  out 
side  these  convent  walls. 

We  have  the  strangest  ideas  sometimes 
about  that.  The  Sisters  seem  to  dread  it 
for  us,  and  they  often  speak  of  it  as  if  it 
were  a  terrible  beast  that  couched  at  the 
entrance,  ready  to  spring  upon  us  when 
we  came  out.  But  we  cannot  think  of  it 
that  way.  Maudie  asked  Mabel  one  even 
ing  what  she  thought  the  world  was  like, 
and  she  said  she  thought  of  it  as  a  kind  of 
a  big  party  she  was  invited  to,  where  she 
would  meet  a  great  many  people,  and  like 
them  a  lot,  and  dance  with  some  of  them, 
and  hear  music  all  the  time.  Maudie  said 
she  thought  it  was  more  like  a  vast  picture- 
gallery,  where  there  would  be  a  great  many 
things  to  look  at ;  or  a  play,  as  Shakespeare 
says,  where  she  could  have  a  seat  away 
262 


What   Dreams   May   Come 

down  in  front.  But  I  said  at  once  that  I 
didn't  want  it  that  way — to  sit  on  chairs 
and  look  at  things,  I  mean;  and  that  if  it 
was  a  play  I  wanted  to  be  in  it,  right  on  the 
stage,  doing  things  myself  in  my  humble 
fashion.  Then  Mabel  giggled  and  I  hastily 
changed  the  subject,  for  I  was  not  quite 
sure  what  she  was  laughing  at ;  but  I  meant 
it  just  the  same. 

When  we  get  very,  very  serious  indeed 
we  talk  about  Careers,  for  Careers  are  in 
deed  interesting,  exciting  things,  and  most 
women  seem  to  be  having  them.  We  have 
all  decided  that  we  will  be  very  great  and 
noted  and  sit  on  the  topmost  pinnacle  of 
fame,  and  give  our  autographs  to  people. 
I  will  be  literary,  of  course,  and  write  won 
derful  novels  with  human  heart-beats  in 
every  line,  and  the  masses  will  weep  over 
them.  Then  all  the  girls  at  St.  Catharine's, 
the  ones  who  are  not  sitting  on  the  pinnacle 
of  fame  themselves,  will  boast  of  how  they 
used  to  know  me,  and  tell  anecdotes  of  my 
263 


May  Iverson — Her  Book 

youth,  and  write  letters  reminding  me  of 
themselves  and  asking  for  copies  of  my  books 
with  their  names  in  them.  All  the  maga 
zines  and  newspapers  will  have  illustrated 
articles  every  week  called,  "  May  Iverson  at 
Home,"  and  the  pictures  will  show  me 
writing  more  great  books  at  my  desk,  or 
holding  one  in  my  hand  and  gazing  into  the 
future  with  the  inspired  eyes  of  genius.  Per 
haps  some  of  them  will  show  me  clasping  my 
brow  with  my  hand  and  thinking  thoughts. 
Sarah  Underhill  Worthington  is  always  doing 
that  in  her  photographs,  and  Charles  Dudley 
Warner  and  others  I  have  seen.  My  face 
will  have  lines  all  over  it,  proving  that  I 
have  Lived  and  drunk  deep  draughts  from 
the  very  dregs  of  Life;  but  it  will  be  kind, 
too,  and  I  will  be  kind  inside  as  well,  es 
pecially  to  young  authors,  and  read  all  their 
early  manuscripts;  and  try  to  keep  them 
from  bruising  their  tender  feet  on  the  rocky 
pathway  I  have  trod. 

I  will  probably  live  all  by  myself  in  a 
264 


What   Dreams   May  Come 

great  old  house  by  the  sea,  for  I  know  that 
when  I  begin  to  do  real  writing  I  shall  be 
strange  and  tragic  and  broody,  like  all  other 
gifted  ones,  and  have  to  live  alone  the  way 
the  True  Artist  must.  But  mamma  and 
papa  and  Grace  and  little  Georgie  can  come 
to  see  me  sometimes,  between  books,  and  I 
will  greet  them  with  a  sweet,  sad  smile,  and 
wander  with  them  by  the  ocean's  edge,  and 
say  things  they  will  hurry  home  to  write 
down.  Besides,  of  course,  my  home  will 
be  a  Mecca  for  other  great  souls  who  will 
seek  me  from  afar. 

You  can  see  it  will  be  a  lonely,  yea,  a 
tragic  life,  and  probably  it  will  not  last  long. 
I  used  to  think,  last  year,  when  I  was 
younger,  that  I  would  die  when  I  was  six 
teen.  But  now  I  begin  to  think  I  may  live 
to  be  'most  thirty,  and  thus  have  plenty  of 
time  to  accomplish  all  iny  fondest  dreams 
and  pass  away  before  I  am  tired  of  them. 

Mabel  Blossom  says  she  is  going  to  be  a 
famous  doctor,  the  most  distinguished  wom- 
265 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

an  physician  in  America,  because  that  is 
what  she  would  like  best.  We  know  she 
has  talent,  for  she  gives  medicine  to  all  the 
minims  when  they  are  sick,  and  once  she 
nearly  killed  little  Jennie  Osborne ;  but  that 
was  a  youthful  error,  and,  as  Mabel  truly 
says,  practice  alone  makes  perfect. 

When  Mabel  is  a  doctor  she  will  be  such 
a  good  one  that  her  very  name  will  be  an 
inspiration,  and  women  all  over  the  coun 
try  will  utter  it  in  trembling  tones.  When 
men  doctors  have  given  up  all  hope  for  the 
patient,  some  one  will  say,  "Send  for  Dr. 
Blossom,"  and  Mabel  will  enter  in  a  black, 
tailor-made  gown,  and  her  presence  will  be 
a  benediction  or  something  in  the  room. 
The  patient  will  sit  right  tip  and  be  inter 
ested,  and  Mabel  will  save  her  life  while  the 
men  doctors  look  on  in  awe  and  great  re 
spect.  They  will  say,  "Thank  you,  doc 
tor;  you  have  taught  us  much,"  while  the 
patient's  family  kiss  Mabel's  strong,  skilful 
hands.  All  the  medical  journals  will  have 
266 


What   Dreams   May  Come 

articles  by  Mabel,  and  newspapers  will  talk 
about  her  and  tell  of  her  wonderful  cures; 
and  of  course  she  will  get  very  rich,  for 
her  prices  will  be  enormous.     But  she  will 
never  charge  the  poor  anything  at  all,  and 
her  beautiful  home  will  ever  be  a  refuge  for 
those  who  are  ill  and  need  their  money  for 
something  else.     Maudie  and  I  are  both  en 
thusiastic  over  Mabel's  career,  and  we  are 
letting  her  try  all  her  medicines  on  us,  so 
she  can  begin  immediately  without  waiting 
till  she  graduates.     Mabel  says  it  may  in 
terrupt  our  careers  but  it  will  help  hers, 
and  if  anything  happens  to  us  she  will  men 
tion  our  names  as  "martyrs  to  science"  in 
her  first  medical  article.     Sometimes  Mabel 
is  slightly  selfish,  alas,  in  her  absorption  in 
her  science,  for  only  last  month  she  begged 
Maudie  to  break  a  leg  or  arm  so  Mabel  could 
set  it.    Maudie  wouldn't  do  it,  because  com 
mencement  is  'most  here,  and  she  has  an 
essay  to  read,  but  Mabel  never  remembered 
that,  the  thoughtless  child. 
267 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

Maudie  says  she  is  not  quite  sure  what 
she  will  do,  so  she  is  keeping  her  mind  open, 
but  she  thinks  perhaps  she  would  like  to  be 
a  great  actress,  like  Madame  Duse  or  Sarah 
Bernhardt,  and  elevate  the  stage.  At 
night  she  will  have  multitudes  at  her  feet, 
swayed  by  her  lightest  word  or  gesture,  and 
all  day  long  when  she  is  not  acting  she  will 
have  classes  of  chorus  girls  and  young  ac 
tresses,  and  talk  to  them  about  high  ideals 
and  find  good  managers  for  them. 

You  see  how  anxious  we  all  are  to  help 
others.  I  hope  the  gentle  reader  has  ob 
served  this,  for  it  is  the  thing  we  are  taught 
in  the  convent,  and  it  will  go  out  into  the 
world  with  us  and  last  as  long  as  we  live, 
as  it  always  does  in  convent  girls.  It  is 
called  "  the  Community  spirit"  in  the  clois 
ter — and  it  means  that  every  Sister  thinks 
more  of  others  than  of  herself,  and  that 
each  is  working  for  all  the  rest  and  will 
make  any  sacrifice  for  them.  It  means, 
too,  that  while  each  Sister  is  humble  and 
268 


What   Dreams   May   Come 

lowly  and  doesn't  think  much  about  herself, 
she  must  do  her  very  best  and  develop  her 
self  spiritually  to  the  highest  degree,  be 
cause  she  is  one  unit  in  a  great  body — 
the  Community — and  the  Community  as  a 
whole  must  be  as  perfect  as  any  human 
body  can  be.  It  is  a  very,  very  beautiful 
thing,  and  we  girls  admire  it  so  much  that 
we  are  resolved  to  carry  that  spirit  into  the 
world,  and  help  others  and  be  our  best 
selves,  not  for  reward,  but  to  "raise  the 
standard."  Sometimes  Mabel  and  Maudie 
and  I  talk  for  hours  about  how  important 
it  is  to  be  good  and  honorable  and  fine, 
even  if  it  keeps  us  too  busy  to  be  successful. 
We  have  promised  each  other  that  we  will 
never  lose  our  "high  standard  of  personal 
honor,"  as  Sister  Irmingarde  calls  it,  because 
if  we  did  we  would  have  to  blush  for  each 
other,  and  that  would  be  indeed  terrible. 

We  are  always  going  to  keep  together,  of 
course,  and  help  each  other  a  great  deal  in 
every  way.     I  have  promised  Mabel  to  read 
269 


May   Iverson — Her   Book 

all  my  novels  aloud  to  her  patients  in  the 
hospitals,  and  Maudie  says  she  will  have  her 
chorus  girls  come  and  sing  for  them.  Mabel 
says  that  in  return  she  will  have  her  pa 
tients  tell  us  their  sensations,  so  I  can  write 
them  in  my  books  and  Maudie  can  act  them 
when  she  does  Camille  or  any  other  play 
where  the  heroine  dies.  We  have  agreed 
to  meet  every  year  and  spend  a  week  to 
gether,  and  tell  each  other  what  we  have 
learned  in  the  mean  time,  so  we  can  keep 
even,  you  know. 

One  of  the  subjects  we  like  best  to  talk 
about  is  the  friendships  we  are  going  to  have 
— the  men  and  women  we  will  "  select  from 
the  whole  world  to  come  into  the  individual 
circles  of  our  lives,"  as  Maudie  says.  She 
has  her  list  all  ready.  Eleanora  Duse  is  at 
the  head  of  it,  and  Sarah  Bernhardt  is  next, 
and  then  come  Margaret  Sangster  and  Dr. 
Henry  Van  Dyke  and  Ethel  Barrymore. 
She  likes  Mrs.  Sangster  and  Dr.  Van  Dyke 
because  they  write  so  beautifully  about 
270 


What   Dreams   May   Come 

girls,  but  she  thinks  it  would  be  kind  of 
restful  afterwards  to  talk  to  Ethel  Barry- 
more.  My  list  has  Mr.  Henry  James  and 
Mr.  William  Dean  Howells  at  the  very  top, 
and  Marconi  and  President  Roosevelt  and 
A.  Henry  Savage  Landor,  because  Mr.  Lan- 
dor  has  delved  so  deep  in  life  and  felt  so 
many  things.  Besides,  he  says  he  has  never 
had  a  dull  minute,  and  that  is  just  the  kind 
of  a  life  I  expect  to  have,  so  we  shall  have 
much  in  common.  There  are  no  women  on 
my  list,  as  I  fear,  alas,  I  may  not  have  time 
for  them.  But  if  I  had,  I  think  I  would  like 
to  spend  my  few  moments  of  leisure  with 
Sister  Irmingarde. 

Mabel  Blossom  has  Mark  Twain  at  the 
head  of  her  list,  because  he  says  such  funny 
things  and  can  cheer  her  up  so  much  after 
the  strain  of  the  day.  Next  she  has  Dr. 
Grace  Peckham  Murray,  because  she  knows 
so  much  and  is  so  nice;  and  she  said  she 
guessed  she  would  have  Margaret  Deland, 
too.  But  the  minute  she  mentioned  Mar- 
271 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

garet  Deland  I  remembered  that  I  would 
probably  have  more  time  than  I  realized  at 
first,  so  I  put  Margaret  on  my  list  right  off, 
and  I  pointed  out  to  Mabel  that  as  she  was 
literary,  too,  I  had  a  greater  right  to  her 
than  any  doctor  had.  Mabel  did  not  like  it 
very  much,  but  she  is  a  reasonable  child 
and  knows  logic  when  she  hears  it,  so  she 
said  she  would  take  Mrs.  Humphry  Ward 
instead.  Then  she  added  Harry  Lehr  be 
cause  he  is  so  entertaining  and  laughs  so 
much,  and  Marianna  Wheeler  because  she 
knows  all  about  babies.  Mabel  said  that  as 
a  doctor  she  would  need  to  know  a  great 
deal  about  babies,  and  no  doubt  Miss  Wheel 
er  would  tell  her  lots  and  lots,  and  let  her 
visit  the  Babies'  Hospital  whenever  she 
wanted  to. 

It  is,  indeed,  a  beautiful  thought  that  out 
in  the  wide  world  these  friends  are  waiting 
for  us,  knowing  naught  of  our  existence  nor 
of  the  close  ties  the  future  holds  for  them. 
We  of  cen  wonder  how  our  meetings  will 
272 


What   Dreams   May   Come 

come  about  and  whether  they  will  learn  to 
love  us  right  away  or  whether  it  will  take 
some  time.  Mabel  and  Maudie  do  not  seem 
to  be  worried  about  that  a  bit,  but  I  some 
times  feel  a  chilling  doubt.  Maudie  even 
knows  just  how  her  meeting  with  Duse  and 
Bernhardt  will  happen.  She  will  have  fin 
ished  the  last  great  act  of  her  play  some 
night,  she  says,  and  suddenly  she  will  be 
come  conscious  of  two  stately  figures  in  her 
dressing-room.  One  will  be  Duse  and  the 
other  Bernhardt,  and  they  will  be  there 
hand-in-hand,  to  tell  her  that  at  last,  after 
years,  they  meet  for  the  first  time,  and  to 
gether,  America's  great  actress.  They  will 
mean  Maudie.  Then  their  eyes  will  fill 
with  tears  and  they  will  be  unable  to  say 
more,  but  Maudie  will  understand,  and 
that  will  be  the  beginning  of  a  life-long 
friendship.  It  is  beautiful  to  hear  Maudie 
talk.  She  gets  so  excited  that  her  voice 
trembles,  and  one  evening  she  cried  when 
she  was  telling  what  Bernhardt  would  say  to 
273 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

her.  Mabel  Blossom  giggled,  which  was  not 
nice  under  the  circumstances,  and  Maudie 
got  very  angry  indeed  and  went  off  to  bed 
and  would  not  talk  about  Careers  for  a 
whole  week.  Instead,  she  made  Welsh-rab 
bits  in  her  room  every  night,  and  invited  me 
and  Kittie  James  and  Mabel  Muriel,  and 
didn't  ask  Mabel  Blossom,  so  Mabel's  lot 
was  a  sad  and  lonely  one.  You  can  believe 
she  was  serious  enough  the  next  time  we 
discussed  Careers! 

That  was  only  last  night,  and  Kittie 
James  was  there,  too,  so  she  began  to  tell 
what  she  wanted  to  do.  Kittie  is  very 
young,  not  fourteen,  so  her  mind  is  not 
very  mature,  and  of  course  she  has  not 
studied  life's  grim  horrors  the  way  Maudie 
and  I  have.  Kittie  said  she  used  to  think 
she  would  like  to  be  a  nurse,  and  minister 
to  the  sick,  and  be  the  angel  at  the  bedside 
and  soothe  the  savage  breast,  and  then  lay 
a  flower  above  the  patient's  still  heart  when 
he  was  gone.  Mabel  Blossom  got  up  then 
274 


What   Dreams   May   Come 

and  left  in  a  great  hurry.  She  said  she  had 
to  study,  and  we  all  felt  more  confidential, 
somehow,  when  she  was  gone.  Kittie  went 
on  to  say  that  she  had  been  thinking  lately, 
though,  of  other  ways  of  living,  especially 
since  her  sister  Josephine's  baby  came,  and 
she  said  she  had  almost  decided  to  give  up 
her  life  to  her  little  nephew  and  care  for 
him  while  George  and  Josephine  went  to 
parties.  She  said  he  was  just  as  cunning, 
and  was  beginning  to  walk  and  to  say 
words,  and  George  had  taught  him  to  say 
"Kittie,"  and  he  did,  in  the  cutest  way. 
And  she  told  us  all  about  him  and  how  he 
looked,  and  how  many  teeth  he  had,  and 
how  he  played  with  a  feather  for  hours  and 
hours,  and  it  was  very  interesting.  Mabel 
came  back  then  and  got  as  absorbed  as  we 
were.  Then  I  told  about  Georgie,  my  lit 
tle  nephew.  He,  of  course,  is  much  more 
interesting  than  Kittie' s  nephew,  because 
he  is  four  years  old  and  has  a  very  active 
mind.  I  told  the  girls  all  the  bright  things 
275 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

he  had  said,  and  they  got  more  and  more 
serious,  and  pretty  soon  we  all  stopped 
talking  and  sat  very  still. 

After  a  while  I  began  to  think,  and  some 
how,  all  of  a  sudden,  I  felt  dreadfully  lone 
some.  First  I  thought  about  home  and 
papa  and  mamma  and  Grace  and  brother 
Jack  and  little  Georgie,  and  I  could  see  him 
playing  on  the  rug  before  the  fire  with  his 
tight  curls  standing  straight  up  from  his 
head  the  way  they  do.  Grace  always  lets 
him  have  a  frolic  in  his  night-gown  before 
he  goes  to  bed,  and  he  looks  so  cute  and 
dimpled  and  cuddly,  and  there  is  the  sweet 
est  expression  about  his  knees !  I  could  see 
him  plainly  as  I  sat  there,  and  see  Grace  at 
the  piano  and  papa  reading  the  evening 
paper  and  mamma  rumpling  my  brother 
Jack's  hair  as  she  sat  in  a  corner  with  him. 
They  have  a  way  of  getting  off  by  them 
selves  sometimes  for  little  talks.  A  great 
big  lump  came  in  my  throat  and  I  wanted 
dreadfully  to  see  them.  Then  I  remem- 
276 


What    Dreams   May   Come 

bered  that  after  I  left  school  I  could  live 
with  them  always  and  not  be  parted.  I 
was  thinking  how  nice  that  would  be  and 
feeling  better,  when  suddenly,  just  as  if 
some  one  had  made  a  picture  of  it,  that  old 
house  by  the  sea  came  before  my  eyes — 
the  one,  you  know,  where  I  am  to  live  when 
I  become  distinguished  and  queer  and  have 
to  be  by  myself  and  write  novels.  It  look 
ed  so  cold  and  lonely  that  I  shivered  and 
got  close  to  Maudie.  I  could  hear  the 
waves  beat  upon  the  rocks,  and  see  the  gulls 
hovering  over  the  water,  and  hear  my  own 
footsteps  echo  as  I  strode  in  fancy  down 
my  desolate  marble  halls.  Big  tears  rolled 
down  my  cheeks,  but  it  was  so  dark  no  one 
saw  them,  and  I  remembered  that  if  I  was 
to  be  alone  all  my  life  I  might  just  as  well 
get  used  to  it  now  and  begin  to  bear  my 
troubles  without  telling  the  girls.  It  didn't 
cheer  me  a  bit  to  think  of  all  the  books  I 
was  going  to  write  or  the  friends  I  was  go 
ing  to  have,  for  I  remembered  that  prob- 
19  277 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

ably  they  would  all  be  interested  in  their 
own  husbands  and  wives  in  the  selfish  way 
people  have.  I  felt  worse  than  ever  when 
I  thought  of  that,  and  I  don't  know  what  I 
would  have  done  if  I  had  not  remembered 
Maudie's  old  plan  and  mine,  that  I  was  to 
marry  a  brave  young  officer,  and  she  was 
to  marry  a  strong  and  noble  man  who  would 
break  her  will,  and  we  were  to  live  next 
door  to  each  other  so  that  all  our  children 
could  play  together.  That  seemed  more 
grateful  and  comforting,  somehow,  than 
the  lonely  house  by  the  desolate  sea,  so  I 
wiped  my  eyes  and  began  to  imagine  just 
how  the  house  would  look  and  how  I  would 
"  shine  at  social  assemblages,"  as  the  papers 
say  about  mamma.  I  remembered  how  nice 
it  would  be  to  draw  great  artists  and  authors 
around  me  in  my  own  home,  especially  if  I 
had  Algernon  and  the  children  there  first 
(Maudie  and  I  decided  mine  was  to  be  Al 
gernon  and  hers  Philip). 

I  was  just  thinking  how  cute  the  baby 
278 


What   Dreams   May  Come 

would  look  in  little  blue  pajamas  like  Geor- 
gie's,  and  planning  how  well  I'd  bring  him 
up,  avoiding  the  mistakes  dear  mamma 
made  with  me,  when  Maudie  spoke  up  so 
suddenly  she  made  me  jump,  and  asked  if  I 
had  forgotten  how  we  were  to  live  side  by 
side.  Before  I  had  a  chance  to  answer  she 
said  her  mother  had  told  her  it  was  a  serious 
thing  to  decide  on  a  career  too  soon,  and 
had  advised  her  very  earnestly  not  to  do  it, 
but  to  wait  till  her  mind  was  even  more 
mature.  Maudie  said  that  was  why  she 
was  not  quite  sure  she  was  going  to  be  an 
actress.  She  said  it  seemed  wiser  to  keep 
her  mind  open  and  in  an  unprejudiced  con 
dition  so  she  could  consider  any  other  offers 
that  came  along. 

Mabel  Blossom  giggled  then,  but  Maudie 
didn't  seem  to  mind.  She  added  very  calm 
ly  that  the  world  needed  home-makers  and 
good  mothers  just  as  much  as  it  needed 
geniuses,  and  she  admitted  that  sometimes, 
especially  in  the  twilight  hour,  her  thoughts 
279 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

turned  with  a  strange  persistence  to  do 
mestic  topics.  She  said  that  all  the  time  I 
was  talking  about  my  home  by  the  sea  she 
was  trying  to  think  whether  she'd  put  cur 
tains  like  Mabel  Muriel  Murphy's  into  her 
future  home  or  Indian  draperies  like  those 
Kittie  James's  sister  Josephine  had.  And 
she  said  right  out  that  she  had  lain  awake 
hours  one  night  wondering  whether  she 
could  afford  to  dress  the  baby  in  white  all 
the  time  or  whether  she  would  have  to  put 
little  gingham  "creepers"  on  him  in  the 
mornings.  Then  she  began  to  talk  again 
about  how  Philip  was  going  to  look,  and  his 
crisp,  black  curls,  and  how  his  eyes  would 
alternately  flash  fire  and  melt  with  tender 
ness,  but  we  did  not  pay  much  attention, 
for  we  had  heard  all  that  before.  Besides, 
I  was  thinking  of  Algernon,  lying  wounded 
in  some  distant  battle-field  under  Southern 
skies,  and  of  how  I  would  fly  across  the 
world  to  his  side  and  nurse  him  back  to 
health.  For  I  have  now  decided  that  I 
280 


What    Dreams   May   Come 

won't  have  him  killed  by  the  enemy  the 
way  he  was  at  first.  That  plan  was  made 
when  my  mind  was  crude  and  immature. 

All  of  a  sudden  Mabel  Blossom  drew  a 
long  sigh,  and  then  another,  and  when  I 
asked  her  why  she  did  it  she  said  it  was  be 
cause  partings  were  such  terrible  things  and 
hard  for  the  parent  heart  to  bear.  Maudie 
looked  at  her  rather  suspiciously,  but  I  ask 
ed  what  parting  she  meant,  and  Mabel  said 
she  had  long  since  decided  that  her  young 
est  daughter  was  to  be  a  nun,  and  she  was 
just  beginning  to  realize  how  hard  it  would 
be  to  see  her  take  the  black  veil !  Then  she 
giggled,  of  course,  Dear,  dear  Mabel — we 
must  make  allowance  for  her  youthful  fri 
volities,  but  they  try  even  our  stanch  hearts 
at  times. 

She  broke  the  spell,  as  she  'most  always 
does,  so  we  laughed,  too,  but  not  as  much 
as  Mabel  did,  and  got  up  and  put  our 
arms  around  each  other  and  stood  that 
way  for  a  moment  looking  out  at  the  big, 
281 


May  Iverson — Her   Book 

bright  star  we  love.  Our  star,  we  call  it, 
and  we  have  promised  to  think  of  each 
other  when  we  look  up  at  it  in  future  years. 
It  will  remind  us  of  the  "  Community  spirit," 
too — "too  low  he  aims  who  aims  beneath 
the  stars,"  you  know — and  of  something 
else  very  beautiful  and  sacred.  I  think  we 
all  thought  of  that  something  else  as  we 
gazed  at  it,  so  far,  so  pure,  so  friendly  in  its 
good-night  glance  at  four  little  school-girls. 
I  wish  I  could  write  just  what  we  felt  in 
that  uplifting  moment,  full  of  so  many 
emotions,  but  we  have  time,  as  Sister  Ir- 
mingarde  says,  for  only  one  more  thought. 
This  is  it,  and  the  frivolous  reader  may  skip 
it  if  she  wants  to.  It  seemed  to  me  as  we 
turned  away  that  we  can  never  fail,  or 
have  doubts,  or  fall  below  our  standard,  if 
only  we  look  up  at  that  star  very  often  and 
remember  all  it  suggests. 


THE    END 


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